


The Spark Remembers

by pipermca



Series: Prompts and Events [8]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Big Bang Challenge, Body Dysphoria, Canon-Typical Violence, Claustrophobia, Emotional Manipulation, Friends to Lovers, Identity Issues, Imagery of Dismemberment, M/M, Mentions of Robot Gore, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Canon Compliant, Past Relationship(s), Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, continuity soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-09-07 20:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipermca/pseuds/pipermca
Summary: Everyone knows Bluestreak’s story: how the garrulous sharpshooter was pulled from the rubble of Praxus, how he recovered and joined the Autobots, and how he struggled with his inner demons. Bluestreak thought he knew his story, too.It turns out that he did not know his own storyat all.





	1. Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to **finally** share this story with everyone! 
> 
> I was paired up with two wonderful artists:
> 
>   * Sirienthe: [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Sierenthe), [Tumblr](https://chaoswolf12.tumblr.com/), [DeviantArt](https://www.deviantart.com/chaoswolf12)
>   * Adi: [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Adithehella), [Tumblr](https://tfadi.tumblr.com/), [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/Adithehella)
> 
> [Sirienthe’s artwork](https://www.deviantart.com/chaoswolf12/art/Hound-and-Bluestreak-Stargazing-810249440) is for chapter 3, while [Adi’s artwork](https://tfadi.tumblr.com/post/187130184578/the-spark-remembers-chapter-5-my-contribution) is for chapter 5! The artwork will be embedded into the fic in its proper place, but it’s available now! (And aaaaa I love both pieces so much!) Please go check out their work, and then enjoy this fic! 
> 
> I’ll post chapter 2 next week, then in September I’ll switch to two chapters a week.

_Log file deletion: Completed._

_Initiating reboot._

_New build detected._  
_Frametype: Endurance pursuit chassis._  
_ Errors identified. Spark/frame mismatch detected._  
_ Debug process completed._

_Reinitializing._  
_Identification information modified and loaded._  
_ Designation: Bluestreak of Praxus._  
_ Chronometer reading: 1352.25.9985.01_  
_ Coarse GPS location: Central Iacon._

_Frame control pack: Loaded._  
_Sensory system pack: Loaded._  
_ Diagnostic pack: Loaded._  
_ Language pack: Loaded._  
_ Culture pack: Loaded._

_Baseline diagnostics: Completed._  
_Internal power: Low._  
_ Spark containment: Nominal._

_Base firewall initialized._  
_Motor functions initialized._  
_ Sensor functions initialized._  
_ Secondary systems initialized._

“He should be coming up now.”

Bluestreak onlined his optics. A mech with medical insignia on his wings stood over him, watching him intently. When Bluestreak’s optics came up to full brightness, the doctor glanced at a monitor beside him and nodded. “Everything looks good. He’s up and running.” He turned and looked across the berth. “You can talk to him now, but his power’s still low so he won’t be online for long.”

“Bluestreak?”

It seemed to take a lot of energy for Bluestreak to shift his focus to the other side of the berth. But after he had fractionally moved his helm and optics to the right, he saw another mech standing beside him. “Hello,” Bluestreak scratched out. His voice crackled.

The white and black mech smiled as soon as Bluestreak’s optics fixed on him. “Hello, Bluestreak,” the mech said again. “You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Prowl. I’m a friend.”

“Prowl?” Bluestreak’s processor scanned his memory files, and found nothing about a Prowl. Actually, they found nothing at all. His memory files were blank. Concern seeped into his processor. “Why don’t I remember anything?” he asked, carefully enunciating to be understood through the static in his vocalizer. Every word felt like a chore.

Prowl lowered his sensor wings, drawing Bluestreak’s attention to them. “You were gravely injured,” Prowl said. There was a slight quaver in his voice. “You almost died. They saved your life, but they couldn’t save your memory files.”

That would explain the lack of any memory preceding this moment. “How was I hurt?” Bluestreak asked.

It didn’t seem possible that his sensor wings could fall even lower, but Prowl managed somehow. “The Decepticons bombed Praxus,” he said, this voice taking on a dangerous edge. “You were pulled from the rubble.” Prowl grabbed Bluestreak’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It’s a miracle you survived at all.”

He had a million questions, and he wanted to ask them all. But a warning pinged on Bluestreak’s HUD, alerting him of the need to power down again. He grasped at Prowl’s hand with as much strength as he could muster. “Be here... when I... wake up?” he asked, struggling to keep his optics and audials online.

As the room faded back into darkness, Bluestreak heard Prowl say, “Of course I’ll be here.”

* * *

Prowl kept his promise.

Over the next few days, almost every time that Bluestreak came back online, Prowl was there. The two times that the white and black mech was not sitting by his side when Bluestreak opened his optics, the doctor (whose name was Pharma, Bluestreak learned) called him, and Prowl arrived within minutes of Bluestreak waking up.

“I feel like all of the power keeps getting sucked right out of me every time I move just a bit,” Bluestreak complained on the fifth day. His memory might have been blank, but at least his chronometer worked. He lifted his arm off the berth, and watched his power level tick downward just while holding his arm out. He glanced around the room quickly to make sure that Pharma wasn’t hovering around one of the monitors; he didn’t want to make him mad. “You said they had to practically rebuild me from scratch. Are you sure they got it all right? Maybe they missed a connection, or something isn’t calibrated correctly. And I keep getting twinges of pain from... Well, it’s not really pain, but it’s uncomfortable... It’s a discomfort, I guess. Yeah. I keep getting discomfort from my spark. And every time I mention it, Pharma just says it’ll go away soon. I hope it does, and it’s not that I don’t believe him, but it’s kind of irritating, you know?”

Prowl gave Bluestreak that odd wide-opticked look he often did whenever Bluestreak started talking. Bluestreak wasn’t sure what Prowl found so startling about him talking, but Prowl usually recovered quickly, like he did this time. “I’m sure,” Prowl said. “You must understand that you were very gravely injured. Even your spark chamber was crushed, and nearly lost containment before they were able to stabilize you. Almost every single part of your frame had to be replaced. It’ll take time for you to recover from something like that.” He smiled at Bluestreak. “But I have the greatest confidence in Pharma and the rest of the staff here. They tell me that you should start to feel stronger in a few more days, once your systems finish their integration with your spark. You just need to be patient.”

“I guess,” Bluestreak said, sinking back into the pillow. Even the small movements he’d made as part of his demonstration had tired him. He looked up at Prowl and said, “It’s really boring in here, by the way. Can you tell me some more stories? The ones you were telling me yesterday were interesting. You know, the ones about what I used to do in Praxus. Um... Maybe this time, can you tell me more about you, and how you joined the Autobots? That was interesting when you started to get into that last night, before I fell asleep.”

Prowl nodded. “Of course,” he said.

Prowl was an officer in the Autobots. The history files that Prowl had given Bluestreak a few days before gave him the background on the civil war that had been raging for over a thousand years, and the stances of the two factions. Prowl explained how he had joined the Autobots to help defeat Megatron and the Decepticons, while Bluestreak had stayed behind in Praxus to help defend the citystate from attack.

“That explains why I was in Praxus instead of fighting alongside you, even though you said we were really good friends,” Bluestreak said after Prowl had been speaking for an hour or so. Bluestreak fought to stay online, just for a little while longer. He didn’t want to lose another twelve hours to the darkness of recharge just yet. “That must have been hard on you.”

A look of grief crossed Prowl’s face and he glanced down. “It was,” he said quietly. “I wanted you to come join the Autobots with me, but you were adamant that you couldn’t leave your post in the city. You were part of the Civil Defense Corps for Praxus, and you said that you’d sworn an oath to protect it. So you stayed.” Prowl’s sensor wings drooped behind him, and Bluestreak felt him fumble for his hand. The white and black mech didn’t look at Bluestreak’s face as he added, “When I heard Praxus had been attacked, I feared the worst.”

Bluestreak sent one more override to his optics, forcing them to stay open for a moment longer. “But I’m here now, right?” he asked. “Even if I can’t remember anything, I’m still here.”

It might have been the pixilation in his visual sensors as they finally powered down, but Bluestreak swore that Prowl’s expression grew even more sorrowful. He felt Prowl squeeze his hand. Just before he dropped offline, Bluestreak heard Prowl say, “Yes. You are here.”

* * *

The disjointedness of his first week online slowly graduated into a more regular online/offline cycle. As Prowl and Pharma had both promised, his spark finally finished integrating properly into its repaired frame, and his power issues became more manageable. He was even able to sit up for short periods of time, although he needed assistance moving between sitting up and laying back down.

The unfortunate side effect of being online for longer periods of time was spending time alone. Prowl was very apologetic, but he had work to do and couldn’t spend every minute by his side. The hospital staff who tended to him were also understandably busy. Prowl had given Bluestreak some data pads to help pass the time, but they seemed to be mostly dry histories and documentaries of the horrors that the Decepticons had inflicted on Cybertron and their fellow mechs. That, combined with the almost complete silence of the room he was in, started wearing on Bluestreak. There were no windows, so he couldn’t see outside. He asked the nurses to prop the room’s door open so he could at least see mechs passing by outside, but they said they couldn’t do that. Something about ‘orders.’

Ugh.

After two days, Bluestreak couldn’t take the silence and solitude anymore. “I need someone to talk to or I’m going to go crazy,” he said when Prowl finally came to see him. Prowl had only been gone for two hours, but it had felt like days. “It feels like I’m in quarantine or something. All I ever see is you and Pharma, and the nurses. I hear other mechs out in the hallway, but no one ever comes in to see me...” He watched as Prowl’s expression shifted into the surprised look that told Bluestreak he was talking a lot, but he barreled on. “I need someone to talk to, or something else to occupy myself. Maybe some entertainment shows to watch? Can I do that? Or a window so I can look outside? Or even something else to read. I mean, thank you for the data pads, but they really aren’t my speed.”

“I’m so sorry, Bluestreak,” Prowl said with a grimace. “It was never my intention to make you feel isolated. You were just very weak after you were initially brought online. We wanted to make sure you didn’t overexert yourself.”

Bluestreak plucked at the berth covers. “Since I can’t do anything except lie here and wait for people to come talk to me, there’s no danger of that,” he said. “And I feel better every single day. But I’m also really, **really** bored.”

Pharma, who had been checking one of the monitors over Bluestreak’s berth, looked down at him. “You **are** getting stronger. And as soon as you’re able to sit up by yourself and stay sitting for two hours, you can begin rehab.” The doctor glanced at the monitor again and made a notation on his data pad. “You definitely won’t be bored there. And,” Pharma added with a flick of his wings that drew Bluestreak’s attention, “there will be lots of mechs to talk with.”

“That reminds me, one of the Autobot psychologists will be coming to see you soon,” Prowl said. “You don’t have to tell him anything you don’t want to, but he will assess you to see if you might be harbouring any latent trauma.” Prowl’s optics fixed on Bluestreak’s evenly, as if waiting for him to protest.

But Bluestreak shrugged. “Sure, that sounds good to me. I’ll talk to just about anyone at this point! Although I’m not sure what I’m going to tell him,” Bluestreak said. “My whole life story as I remember it is only about a week long!”

The next time Prowl came to see him, he brought another set of data pads. “I brought something new that might be interesting to you,” he said, handing the first pad to Bluestreak.

When he flicked the pad on, Bluestreak was expecting to see the title page of yet another analysis of Cybertronian politics, or a history of the Senate. But the first thing he saw was a cityscape filled with soaring, glittering towers and countless lights. Behind the towers, the sky glowed a stunning red. “This is gorgeous,” he said, flicking to the next image of a sunset taken through a stand of crystals laid out in rows. “Where is this?”

When Prowl didn’t answer immediately, Bluestreak looked up to see his friend sitting with slumped shoulders. “These photos were all taken in Praxus,” Prowl said when he saw Bluestreak staring at him. “Praxus before the war, that is. I collected these from the archives, and from my own files. I wanted to show you what it looked like before the Decepticons destroyed it.”

Bluestreak reverently paged through the images one by one. “I can see why I wanted to stay behind to defend it,” he said quietly. “It’s more beautiful than I even imagined from your descriptions.” Prowl made a garbled noise, and Bluestreak looked up quickly in concern. Prowl’s optics were shut tight, and Bluestreak leaned over to grab Prowl’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I say something wrong?”

Prowl shook his helm, and he reset his vocalizer. “No,” he finally said. “You didn’t. It’s just still... It’s still hard. Remembering.” With a flick of his sensor wings, Prowl seemed to collect himself, and he sat up straight again. “My apologies.”

Looking back down at the pad, Bluestreak swiped past a few more cityscape photos. Then he stopped on a photo with two mechs in it. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Who’s this? Wait, this one’s you,” he said, pointing at the white and black mech in the photo. Bluestreak held the pad up and compared the photo to Prowl. “I take it this was a while ago. You look a lot younger.”

Prowl smiled. “Yes. This was about twelve hundred years ago, before the war.”

“Who’s this with you?” Bluestreak asked, looking at the grey and red mech standing next to Prowl, wearing a shy smile.

“That’s you, Bluestreak,” Prowl said quietly. His sensor wings were held low against his back as he looked down at the pad.

“Me?” Bluestreak asked. He zoomed in on the mech in the photo. His arm was slung around Prowl’s shoulders, while Prowl’s arm curled around his waist. The other mech was a Praxian, obviously, with wings almost the same shape as Prowl’s. Emblems were painted on his wings that Bluestreak recognized from the documentaries that Prowl had given him, showing him to be a member of the Praxian Civil Defense Corps. His chevron was red like Prowl’s, but was thicker and less pointed, and his build was a bit larger than Prowl’s.

But aside from the mech’s similarities to Prowl, he looked utterly unfamiliar.

“I’m not doubting you,” Bluestreak said. “But... That’s not what I thought I looked like.” He looked up at Prowl and then shrugged. “Then again, I haven’t seen myself in a mirror, so I’m not sure what I was expecting.” He held out his arm, comparing his grey paint to that of the mech in the photo. It was a perfect match. “Do you think you can get me a mirror? I’d like to see myself. Maybe this won’t be as weird, then.”

“When you’re strong enough to sit in a magchair, they’ll take you into the washracks,” Prowl said. “There’s a full-length mirror in there.”

Bluestreak nodded and looked back down at the pad. Prowl smiled at the camera, looking carefree and confident, while Bluestreak’s lowered sensor wings and ducked helm gave the impression that he didn’t want his photo taken. He flipped to the next photo, and this one was just of Bluestreak. He was looking up at the photographer with a relaxed, candid smile on his face. The corners of his optics were wrinkled up with his smile, and there was a slight flash of dentae showing between his lips. He was comfortably sprawled back on a couch, an arm slung over the back and his sensor wings resting on top of the back cushions. In his free hand he held a drink.

“I look a bit less uptight in this one,” Bluestreak said.

“The only way I could get a genuine smile out of you for a picture was if you didn’t know you were being photographed,” Prowl said. When Bluestreak looked up at him again, Prowl was staring at the pad with a small, sad smile. He caught Bluestreak looking at him and shrugged. “I’ve always liked this picture. You were a little mad about it, but I’m still glad I got it.”

“So am I,” Bluestreak said. “Although I’m not sure why I was so uncomfortable getting photographed.” He grinned at Prowl. “You didn’t tell me that I was so good looking!” he said jokingly.

Prowl’s smile faded slightly. “I used to tell you that all the time, actually,” he said.

Something in the way the words fell from Prowl’s vocalizer made Bluestreak pause. He felt as though he was missing something obvious, something that was staring him right in the face.

He flipped to the next picture, which was another picture of Prowl and Bluestreak. In the photo, they were both looking off to the side at something out of view, and they were both smiling. Prowl’s arms were wrapped around Bluestreak’s waist, and his helm rested on Bluestreak’s shoulder. One of Bluestreak’s arms was draped around Prowl, and his hand gently cradled the side of Prowl’s helm. His fingers were curled as if he was in the act of gently brushing Prowl’s audial. It was a cute, candid scene of two mechs who were obviously close, and...

Oh. **Oh**.

Bluestreak looked up at Prowl again. All of the pieces fell together: Prowl hovering at his berthside when he first awoke, his sadness every time that Bluestreak’s brush with death came up, the affectionate glances Prowl gave him when he thought Bluestreak wasn’t looking... It all suddenly made sense.

“Prowl, look...” Bluestreak said, searching for words. He liked Prowl, but just as a friend. Frag, he’d hardly even met anyone else at this point. Prowl was all right to look at, but Bluestreak didn’t feel any kind of attraction to him at all. He felt like he was trying to pick his way through a minefield while wishing he could just fly over it instead. “Look, I like you as a friend and all, but if you were hoping for something more... I don’t think I can promise you anything.”

“What?” Prowl’s gaze was ripped from the data pad to Bluestreak. Then his sensor wings suddenly shot up over his shoulders, and he held up his hands. “Oh. No. Bluestreak, I don’t expect... I’m not expecting anything to be the way it was before you... Before you almost died,” Prowl said, then shook his helm. “I know you don’t remember anything about... us. My intention was never to make you feel pressured into picking things back up the way they were.” He motioned as if to take the data pad from Bluestreak. “My apologies if I’ve upset you.”

Bluestreak moved the pad out of Prowl’s reach. “No, look, it’s all right,” he said. “I’m sorry that we can’t pick up where you remember, but... I don’t think I’m exactly the same mech you knew before. I don’t see how I could be, without my memories.” He frowned at Prowl’s quivering wings and stricken look, worrying that he’d somehow made the situation worse. “But we can still be friends... Right?” He reached out and grabbed Prowl’s hand. “I mean, you’re really my **only** friend at this point, and I don’t want to lose you.” He ventured a grin, hoping to make Prowl’s sensor wings stop twitching.

Prowl stared at him for a moment, and then he visibly relaxed. “Sure,” Prowl said, his sad smile returning. “We can absolutely be friends. I would like that.”

* * *

Two days later, Bluestreak finally got to see himself in a mirror.

Two nurses came to shift him into a magchair, and pushed him into the room’s attached washrack. Even though Bluestreak couldn’t stand up in the shower, the warm solvent felt glorious as it washed down over his plating.

As the nurses helped him dry off, Bluestreak examined the strange mech in the mirror. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he looked exactly like the mech in Prowl’s pictures. He had silver and grey and red plating, and his bulky chevron was identical to the once he’d seen in the photos. His sensor wings were just like Prowl’s, and Bluestreak moved them up and down experimentally as he watched himself in the mirror.

The movement felt right, but it looked wrong, somehow. Bluestreak couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong about it, exactly. Maybe it was because his sensor wings were shaped slightly differently than Prowl’s, and those were the only ones he’d seen in motion before now? He wasn’t sure.

That feeling of wrongness stuck with him until later that day, when a blue and red Praxian walked into his hospital room. “Bluestreak, I presume?” the mech asked. When Bluestreak nodded, he stuck his hand out with a smile. “I’m Smokescreen. I think Prowl told you I was coming to give you a preliminary psyche assessment.”

Bluestreak gripped his forearm and gestured at the seat next to his bed. “Yeah, Prowl said you’d drop by today or tomorrow. I’m glad you’re here, because I am so utterly bored, and I could really use someone to talk to.”

“Well, that’s great, since all I want to do is talk.” Smokescreen settled into the chair and took out a data pad. Glancing at it, he said, “I’ve read your file and saw that you received a full frame reconstruction, and that all of your memory files were lost.” Smokescreen lowered the pad and looked at Bluestreak. “How are you feeling about that?”

Bluestreak thought about Smokescreen’s question for a moment before answering. Finally, he said, “I’m not feeling anything, really. I mean, Prowl showed me some pics of us together before the war, and that made me sad for the things that I don’t remember, and I’m sad for him because he’s obviously sad about Praxus and everything that happened, but... I’m not crushed about the things I can’t remember, if that makes sense. I don’t remember them at all, so when he tells me about something that I did or said, it feels like it was something that happened to someone else and not me.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure if I’m making myself clear.”

Smokescreen listened to Bluestreak calmly, without the startled look that Prowl sometimes wore when Bluestreak spoke. He nodded. “No, that makes a lot of sense. What you’re describing is fairly common for mechs who’ve lost their memories. But just because you don’t have the memory files about an event doesn’t mean that part of you won’t remember.” He pointed at Bluestreak’s chest. “The spark remembers. Not in detail, of course. You won’t remember places or specific events or conversations. But the spark can remember things with a strong emotion attached to them: love, fear, desire, anger, things like that. So don’t be surprised if you suddenly experience an emotion or feeling that doesn’t seem appropriate. It could be your spark reacting to what’s happening.”

“That makes sense,” Bluestreak said. He held his hand over his spark for a moment, wondering how he could tell the difference between an expected emotion and an unexpected one.

“How about everything else? How are the frame repairs treating you?” Smokescreen asked.

Recalling the strangeness of seeing his wings move in the washrack that morning, Bluestreak said, “It’s good. But there is one thing that is bothering me a little.” When Smokescreen gestured for him to go ahead, Bluestreak continued. “It’s my sensor wings. When I move them, like this,” he said, demonstrating with a little dip and a waggle, “they **feel** fine. But I saw them for the first time today in a mirror and...” He gestured vaguely, trying to find the words. “They didn’t **look** right. They weren’t mine. It’s like I was watching a vid of someone else.”

“What about them didn’t look right?” Smokescreen asked.

“I don’t know!” Bluestreak exclaimed. “That’s the problem. All I have to compare them to are Prowl’s sensor wings... and now yours. And the photos Prowl showed me of myself before the war, and they look the same.”

Smokescreen leaned back in his chair. “That’s not uncommon for mechs who’ve had major reconstructive surgery,” he said. “It’s possible that your sensor wings are shaped a little differently than you remember. Even subtle differences in proportion or how the panels are angled could be enough to trigger something in your spark that says ‘not quite right.’” He lifted his own sensor wings so that the tips stood well clear of his shoulders. “Do mine look wrong?”

“No,” Bluestreak said. “But Prowl’s don’t look wrong either. And in the photos of me, they looked ok. It was just...” He frowned. “It was just when I looked in the mirror.”

Thumbing through the information on his data pad, Smokescreen asked, “Were your sensor wings damaged or ripped off in your accident? Perhaps your spark is remembering the trauma of them being removed from your frame. Bad accidents like that can leave lasting psychological effects.”

Bluestreak thought about what he’d been told about the state of his original frame when he’d been found in the rubble. “I guess? They said that my frame had been totally crushed, so I’m guessing that my wings might have come off at some point.”

Humming quietly, Smokescreen made a notation on his data pad. “It could be that’s what’s causing your discomfort. In any event, I’d suggest giving it a little bit of time. But if they truly make you feel uncomfortable, and you can identify **exactly** what the problem is, it might be possible to have minor reconstructive surgery to fix the problem... If the resources are available, that is,” he said. Then he smiled at Bluestreak. “I have a feeling that once you get more used to moving around in your new frame, the feeling of ‘wrongness’ will disappear. But if you do continue to have problems, please let me know.”

Even though he was tired, Bluestreak stayed online into the evening after Smokescreen left. He flipped through the pad of photos that Prowl had left with him, and stared at the photo of the grey mech standing with his arm looped around Prowl.

It still felt like he was looking at a stranger.

* * *

Prowl was extremely apologetic that he would be away from Iacon for several weeks. “I have some work for the Autobots that I have to attend to personally,” he said. “But I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”

“It’s all right,” Bluestreak said. “I know how much your work means to you.”

Prowl smiled, dipping his sensor wings in thanks. “I’ll be back soon. Besides, they tell me you’re starting rehab today, so that should keep you busy with other mechs to talk to.”

Prowl was right. As soon as Bluestreak was lifted into his magchair and pushed into the hallway, he felt as though his helm would twist right off, he was looking around so much. There were mechs everywhere! Doctors and nurses hurried here and there, and other patients were pushed around or slowly walked the hallways.

When they arrived at the rehab clinic, Bluestreak was deposited at a station against the wall. The room was filled with patients, all waiting at stations like his, while the center of the room held a variety of stairs, poles and other equipment. Patients were being assisted to use them in turns.

A tech came up to Bluestreak and ran a hand held scanner over him. “New guy, huh?” the tech said. “My name’s Pipette. I’m going to get you plugged in via your medical ports here so we can run an initial diagnostic, then we’ll get started. It should only take a few minutes.” Without waiting for any kind of a response or permission from Bluestreak, he inserted a plug from a nearby monitor into Bluestreak’s medical port, then walked away without another word.

“Rude,” Bluestreak muttered.

“Don’t mind him.” Bluestreak turned to see a green mech sitting at the next station smiling at him. He also had cords running from the medical port in his neck to a monitor beside him. “They’re just really busy right now, and he’s got a lot to do. Pipette can be sort of gruff and short on berthside manners, but he’s a good tech once you get to know him.” He gave a little wave and added, “I’m Hound, by the way.”

“I’m Bluestreak! Nice to meet you.” Bluestreak was partially aware of the diagnostic running in the background of his processor. It was similar to the ones that Pharma ran on him regularly, and he tried to ignore the sensation. He pointed at the emblem on Hound’s shoulder. “You’re an Autobot, too? Like Prowl.”

“Yup, I’m an Autobot,” Hound said, and his optics brightened. “You know Prowl?”

“Yeah,” Bluestreak said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

Hound nodded. “That would explain why you’re here, being a Neutral,” he said. “This medical center is pretty much only Autobots. He must have pulled a few strings to get you in here. They’ve got the best doctors in the whole army here.” He shrugged. “Of course, not many places for Neutrals to go now, what with Praxus being gone, of course.” Hound’s optics widened. “Sorry, that was thoughtless of me. I really am sorry about your city.”

“It’s all right,” Bluestreak said with a shrug. “I don’t remember anything about it. They told me they had to rebuild me from scratch, and my memory files were lost.”

Hound frowned. “Wow, that’s rough,” he said. “I know a few other mechs who lost their memory, and they all had a pretty hard time of it.” When Bluestreak shrugged again, Hound shook his helm. “No, I’m serious. You tell me if there’s something I bring up that you don’t want to talk about, all right? No harm, no foul. Everyone’s got baggage now with how long this war’s dragged on. I’ll do the same if you get too close to one of my sore spots.” He smiled at Bluestreak. “We’ve all gotta look out for each other these days.”

Bluestreak returned Hound’s smile. He’d immediately taken a liking to the green mech: he was warm, friendly, and – best of all, as far as Bluestreak was concerned – talkative. “Thanks, Hound. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Another tech came by and dropped a cube of fuel at each of their stations, admonishing them to top up their fuel levels before they started their exercises. Hound opened his and took a sip. “So if you don’t mind me asking... Where were you when Praxus went down?”

“Praxus, I guess.” Bluestreak took a sip from his own fuel cube, then another. There was an additive in the fuel that made it taste way better than the stuff he’d been getting in his hospital room. “That’s where I was damaged. Prowl said they dragged me out of the ruins on the verge of deactivation.”

“Praxus?” When he looked up again, Hound was frowning. “That’s weird,” Hound said. When Bluestreak tipped his helm to the side, Hound added, “I was part of the search and rescue team that was dispatched to Praxus. We only found about a dozen survivors. I don’t remember a Bluestreak being one of them.”

Bluestreak set his cube down after having made short work of the fuel, and shrugged at Hound again. “I don’t remember anything about it, of course, but Prowl said they found me in Praxus. I don’t know why he would lie about that.” Bluestreak’s thoughts wandered back to the photos that Prowl had shown him of the two of them in Praxus. “Maybe they found me after you were done?”

“Maybe. I was there until they called off the search effort, but I suppose that it’s possible they found you after I was reassigned,” Hound said, still looking doubtful. Then his smile returned. “But if Prowl said that’s where you were found, that’s good enough for me. He’s one of the most loyal Autobots I know. I’ve been on a few missions that he’s planned, and they’ve all gone off without a hitch. The mech is never wrong.”

“So how about you?” Bluestreak asked. He gestured at Hound’s frame. “What got you sent in for remedial movement lessons?”

Hound laughed with a deep, joyful sound that made Bluestreak’s spark spin a bit faster. “Remedial movement. I like that!” He finished his own cube of fuel before replying. “My unit got hit with an acid gas attack about a year ago. A few of us took the brunt of it, and were able to warn the others off before the whole unit was taken out. We lost one mech,” Hound said, the joy vanishing from his voice. He was silent for a moment before heaving a small sigh. “Anyway, the acid got into my lines and systems. I had to have my whole ventilation system replaced as an emergency repair, but they didn’t have the parts to replace the hardware and hydraulics for my joints. They’ve been slowly seizing up, and it finally got bad enough that they had to send me in for repairs.” He held up his arm, and Bluestreak could see thin welds running the length of his limb. “I’ll need a few weeks of rehab to get my full strength back, and then I’ll be back out in the field.” He smiled. “Back out where I belong.”

Pipette appeared in front of their stations and clapped his hands together. “All right, I’m glad you two are bonding over whatever, but it’s time for you to start working. Hound, we’re going to start you on the stairs today. Bluestreak, you’re just going to work on getting up onto your pedes and staying there.” The tech smiled, and Bluestreak couldn’t figure out if it was a good smile or a bad one. “I’m afraid that this is going to hurt.”

* * *

When Prowl finally returned to Iacon, Bluestreak had managed to stand, walk, climb the small set of stairs in the rehab clinic, and even transform into his alt mode. There was something that felt off about his transformation sequence, but – like the issue with his sensor wings – he couldn’t quite put words to what was wrong about it. So he didn’t bother bringing it up to the techs, or mention it to Smokescreen during one of their sessions.

Every day he felt stronger and stronger, and when Prowl finally walked into his hospital room after several weeks away, Bluestreak was able to greet him by standing up and giving him a hug.

Prowl’s sensor wings flared out in surprise, but he readily returned the embrace. “I see that rehab has been going well for you,” he said. He had to tip his helm up slightly to look at Bluestreak; as he’d seen in the photos, Bluestreak was slightly taller than Prowl. “I’m very glad to see you up and about finally!”

Bluestreak slowly lowered himself back into his chair; his power consumption was still out of whack, and he had another rehab session later that day. He didn’t want to tire himself out before he even got there. “It’s been going really well!” he said. “There’s been so much to do and so many mechs to talk to, I haven’t even had a chance to be bored. I met a mech there named Hound. Small world I guess: he was at Praxus, helping with the search and rescue. He said he didn’t remember hearing about me being rescued, but we figured that I must have been found after he left. Have you met him? He’s really nice and I think we’re becoming friends.” His sensor wings fluttered a bit at the thought, but he froze when he saw the expression on Prowl’s face. “I mean, you’re still my friend, too, Prowl. I can have more than one friend, right?” He leaned over and patted Prowl’s shoulder, trying to stop Prowl from looking so serious.

For once, Prowl’s optics didn’t go wide at Bluestreak’s barrage of words. Instead, his brow furrowed at the mention of Hound’s name, and Bluestreak’s touch to his shoulder did nothing to erase the frown on his lips. His wings flicked up and down indecisively. “Yes, yes. Of course you can have more than one friend,” he said distractedly. “Hound is a good Autobot. I just didn’t realize he was here.”

“He thinks the world of you, you know.” Bluestreak grinned as his words caused Prowl’s flicking sensor wings to stop suddenly. “He said you were one of the most loyal Autobots he knows, and that you’re never wrong.”

“He... said that?” Prowl asked, cycling his optics at Bluestreak, and slowly sat down next to him.

“Yup!” Bluestreak sat back in his chair, glad that he’d gotten Prowl to snap out of whatever momentary worry had affected him. “He said he always felt better knowing that you were planning a mission he was on, since that meant it would go off without a hitch. And I absolutely believe him, with what I know of you so far.” Bluestreak cheered internally when a shy smile returned to Prowl’s face at the compliment. “Oh, and I got some good news yesterday... They said I’m making really good progress, and they think they might be able to release me into outpatient care in a month or so, and then discharged completely a few months after that.”

“That’s wonderful!” Prowl said, a real smile lighting his face. Bluestreak loved when he got Prowl to smile like that, since his optics always became a brighter shade of blue. This time, he noticed that they became the same azure blue that Hound’s were. “Have you thought about what you would like to do when you’ve been discharged?” Prowl asked.

Prowl’s question made Bluestreak pause. He’d thought about getting out of the hospital, but only in the most general of terms: getting to see more of Iacon, more of Cybertron, seeing the sky, looking at the stars that Hound had described to him. After all, he didn’t remember anything about his life before waking up in the hospital. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not really,” he admitted, then shrugged. “But I guess I’d better think about it, huh?”

With a nod, Prowl said, “You don’t have to decide right away, of course. And I don’t want you to feel pushed in any specific direction. But, now that Praxus is gone...” He leaned over and grabbed Bluestreak’s hand. “I would be honoured if you’d join the Autobots, and fight at my side.”

Bluestreak blew air through his vents. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

* * *

Three days later, as he was sitting back down after spending almost an hour on the alt-mode treadmill set up in the corner of the rehab clinic, Hound said, “They told me they’re releasing me tomorrow.”

“Really? That’s great!” Bluestreak said. He drank from the cube of fuel that had been dropped at his station. “I’ve still got a month left in the hospital, they said. But I’m apparently getting better faster than they expected. Tomorrow they’re going to work on my endurance to try to improve my energy consumption.” He smiled at Hound. “I’m sure going to miss you. You’re great to talk to.”

Hound returned Bluestreak’s smile. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re fun to talk to as well. I...” His voice faltered for a moment, a flicker of a shadow crossing his face. “So many mechs out there are hurting... Up here and in here,” he said, tapping a finger against his helm and again on his chest, over his spark. “It can be hard to just have a regular conversation without someone bringing up the war, or what they’ve lost.” His smile returned, his optics brightening again. “You’ve been a beam of light for me these past few weeks. So, thank you.”

Bluestreak’s sensor wings fluttered, and he was suddenly conscious of how much he enjoyed it when Hound simply looked at him. “You’re welcome,” he said, then realized his vocalizer had somehow become underpowered. He reset it and tried again. “You’re welcome. And... It’s a shame you have to go back now, especially if you’re not having fun. Not that war is fun, I guess. And deserting would probably get you into a heap of trouble. But couldn’t you just...” He glanced around the room, and saw that Pipette and the other techs were out of hearing range. “I don’t know... Pretend you’re not better? Tell them that one of your knees started mysteriously locking up again?”

“No,” Hound said, and shook his helm. “I have to go back. My unit needs me.” He gestured to the data pad he had on his lap. “I’ve been writing to them. They’ve seen some more fighting, and they could really use me. I don’t want to let them down.” With a grin, he added, “Besides, Trailbreaker owes me money.”

Bluestreak laughed along with Hound, then sipped at his fuel. He tried to picture smiling, cheerful Hound with a gun, his mouth twisted into a snarl as he shot at the enemy... And failed. He looked at Hound again and asked, “Can you tell me why you fight?” When Hound glanced at him with a quizzical expression, he elaborated. “Why do you fight for the Autobots? What made you choose that side?”

Hound sat back in his seat and looked at the cube of fuel in his hand for a moment before answering. “I almost didn’t,” he said. “Fight for the Autobots, I mean. In the beginning, Megatron said things that made a lot of sense to me.” He picked at the corner of his fuel cube. “He argued that your alt mode shouldn’t determine your path in life, and that you should be able to choose your own road. That spoke to me, being a truck frame. Before the war, the only jobs I could get were hauling things, construction, or intercity courier runs. But that’s not what I wanted to do.”

Bluestreak thought about the stories that Hound had told him about the wilds of Cybertron. “You wanted to explore,” he said.

“You got it,” Hound said, smiling at Bluestreak. “Wandering off the paved road, exploring new trails, it called to me. I wanted to do more than just take a load of stuff from point A to point B. So when Megatron started talking about self-determination and getting a chance to make your own way, it made me really think.”

“So what happened?” Bluestreak asked. He’d never heard Prowl talk about the good things that Megatron did... Only the horrors that had been committed in his name.

“The rhetoric changed quickly, fast enough for me to decide that I didn’t want to follow where Megatron was leading,” Hound said. “They made demands, demands turned into protests, protests to riots...” He sighed. “When Starscream stormed the Senate and murdered the senators there, I decided I couldn’t agree with anyone who advocated for violence as a means of change.” Hound looked at Bluestreak, his blue optics dimmer than they’d been a few minutes before. “I signed up with the Autobots the next day.”

“Wow,” Bluestreak said, sitting back in his chair. “But what about wanting to go your own way? Wanting to explore? How could you just give that up?”

“I was sad about giving that up, at first,” Hound replied. “But it turns out I shouldn’t have worried. I guess it **is** a little ironic.” He laughed quietly. “I’m fighting against the faction that was founded on being able to choose what you want to do, but it’s the war that’s given me the chance to do exactly that.” He paused again, then threw back the rest of his fuel. “But I suppose life is just strange like that. You never know what path it’s going to send you down.”

When their rehab session was over, Hound and Bluestreak said their goodbyes. “I’m taking off early tomorrow,” Hound said. “It’s been good getting to know you. You’re a good mech, Blue.”

“Thanks,” Bluestreak said. “You made rehab a lot better than I was expecting it would be. It was awesome having someone here to talk to.

Hound pulled Bluestreak in for a hug, and Bluestreak was pleased that he kept his balance. It was proof that his strength was improving. “Take care of yourself,” Hound said, and smiled at Bluestreak. “It’s a rough world out there. I hope I’ll see you again someday.”

That night, staring at the ceiling of his hospital room, Bluestreak couldn’t stop thinking about the friendly green mech, the stories he’d told, and the reasons he’d given for fighting with the Autobots.

Bluestreak remembered the documentaries and information that Prowl had given him to read. He remembered reading that their frametype was usually assigned to peacekeeping or Enforcer duties, and Bluestreak suddenly realized that’s exactly what he had been doing when Praxus had been attacked. He’d been assigned to be a protector, and that’s what he almost died doing. But Prowl made it sound like Bluestreak had **chosen** to do that. Maybe it **was** what he’d wanted to do, even though he’d been forged for it.

Then he thought about all of the things that Prowl had told him about the Autobot cause. It had been Decepticons who had bombed their city, and nearly killed him in the process. It had been the Autobots who had rescued him, and put him back together. He trusted Prowl, and he liked Hound. Pharma seemed all right, as did the other Autobots he’d met around the hospital.

When Prowl came to see him the next morning, Bluestreak had made his decision.

“I’ve decided that I want to join the Autobots,” he said.

Prowl’s satisfied smile was all that he needed to know he’d made the right decision.


	2. Evaluation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak starts his career with the Autobots.

::Primus paint me pink! Did they send me fresh soldiers or sparklings? You lot are a minute and a half behind your pace for yesterday, so I’m adding another two laps. Let’s see some hustle out there!::

As Sergeant Kup’s voice crackled out over the comm channel, Bluestreak heard the groans from his fellow recruits. He added his voice to the grumbles, but it was more for show than anything else. He really didn’t mind the extra laps of the practice field.

Bluestreak settled in behind Sideswipe, drafting behind the larger mech. “When we reach the pole marker, we can swap,” Bluestreak said. “I’ve already followed you for three full laps.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sideswipe said. The racer sat low on his wheels as they took the next turn. “I’ve still got plenty of juice left.” Beside him, Sideswipe’s batch brother said nothing, but came out of the turn right on his brother’s fender.

When Bluestreak entered basic training, he’d fallen in with the brothers almost immediately. Sideswipe was funny and just a bit crazy, and he never failed to make Bluestreak laugh. Sunstreaker was far more reserved than his brother, but seemed to tolerate Bluestreak’s presence in a way that he didn’t for other mechs.

The other recruits in their squad viewed Sideswipe and Sunstreaker with a wariness that Bluestreak didn’t quite understand. Sure, the brothers had come out of the fighting pits of Kaon and had been found scrounging the outback for scraps and fuel before joining the Autobots, but Bluestreak didn’t know why that seemed to make them pariahs.

“You should be careful around them. They’re dangerous,” Goldbug had hissed at Bluestreak a few weeks after training began. “I’ve heard stories of them fighting in the pits, ripping mechs apart with their bare hands.”

“Then it would be good to have them as friends, wouldn’t it?” Bluestreak had replied with a smile, and that had been the end of that conversation.

After being confined to the hospital and having his activities limited for so long, even the rigors of basic training had been a delight to Bluestreak. There was something new to do every day, even if some of it was dull (like driving laps). There were so many new mechs to talk to, and all of them had different stories. There were new things to learn, like the field repair class they’d been put through.

And the sky! Bluestreak had seen the photos that Prowl had given him, and watched vids of the cityscapes of Cybertron from before the war, and heard Hound’s descriptions of the sky, but nothing could have prepared him for how expansive and colourful and beautiful it was! In the morning the horizon was tinged with greys and blues, while at mid-day it was a glowing orangey pink. And at night, the sky was covered in a blanket of twinkling stars, each one a distant world. He loved looking at it.

Bluestreak cast his sensors skyward again as they rounded the next turn on the track.

“What do you think old Kup’s got us doing today?” Sideswipe asked.

“I’m not sure,” Bluestreak said. He thought for a moment. The previous day, they had done several hours of practice with scoped weapons. Bluestreak had done fairly well at that, intuitively sensing the air currents and calculating how to adjust his aim. The day before that they’d done hand-to-hand combat. Bluestreak had done abysmally at that activity, getting thrown and pinned over and over. “I overheard one of the staffers say something about an obstacle course.”

“Again?” Sunstreaker’s engine growled as he finally spoke up. “I hate those. I always end up with scratches I’ve got to buff out.”

Sideswipe wiggled on his wheels as he drove. “Don’t worry, Sunshine. You know I don’t mind helping out with a buffer.”

Bluestreak laughed, and then threw himself into the next turn with a rev of his engine.

When Kup finally called the squad into the infield, Bluestreak reveled in the fact that he barely felt tired at all. As Pharma had promised, his endurance had only increased with every passing month. Now, two years after having been pulled from the wreckage of Praxus, the hospital’s doctors said that they couldn’t tell the difference between his power consumption and that of a mech who hadn’t suffered such critical damage to his spark chamber.

“All right, scraplets,” Kup said as the squad gathered around him. “Today we’re doing something a little different. It’s an obstacle course, but you’re going to be teamed up in pairs.” The old sergeant looked around to see if he could identify who had huffed in exasperation before continuing. “And you’re gonna be timed. Whichever team gets through the fastest gets to skip driving laps tomorrow morning.”

The whole squad perked up at that last part, including Bluestreak. He didn’t mind the laps, but being able to get an extra hour of recharge in the morning would be a real treat.

“Now, this course is designed to mimic a collapsed building. When you’re sent into an area that had been under Decepticon control, we need to sweep the buildings for mines, cameras, and other traps left behind. Over the next several days we’re going to add things for you to find and collect in there, but today we’re just focusing on who can get from one end to the other the fastest.” Kup looked around again. “Everything inside is stable, so don’t worry about gettin’ crushed or anything. Just follow the green markers. Get in and out as fast as you can. Walk, run, drive, carry your partner, I don’t care how you do it... Just get in and get out. Any questions?” He paused again, then looked at the data pad in his hand. “All right, you’ll be going in one team at a time in the following order. First up, Roadbuster and Tailspin. Second, Bluestreak and Sunstreaker. Third –“

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had already gone to stand next to each other, and they both looked surprised when Kup called Sunstreaker’s name without Sideswipe’s. “Um, excuse me, sir?” Sideswipe held up a finger and waited until the sergeant glared at him. “Sunstreaker and I are always paired up.”

“I know. But today you aren’t,” Kup said. “I know you two fight well together, but you won’t always have that luxury out in the field. You’ve got to learn to work with others.” Ignoring Sunstreaker’s murderous scowl, he looked back down at his data pad. “Third, Sideswipe and Redline...”

“Great,” Sunstreaker muttered, stomping over to stand next to Bluestreak. He glared at Redline as the truck took his place next to Sideswipe, then he looked down at Bluestreak. “I guess we’re stuck together.”

Bluestreak smiled and shrugged. He liked Sunstreaker, but he was always easier to deal with when Sideswipe was there to run interference. “We can beat them,” he said, trying to sound confident. He didn’t like the idea of climbing through a crushed building – even a fake one - but how hard could it be?

Sunstreaker’s mouth almost curled upwards into a smile. “Of course we’re going to beat them,” he said, loud enough for his brother to hear. Then he did smile when Sideswipe grinned at him and gave him an obscene gesture.

Bluestreak laughed and then looked at the dark opening of the course. The first team had driven right in, side by side, but had quickly vanished into the darkness. Bluestreak shivered slightly, then flicked his sensor wings out to settle them. This was no big deal. Drive in, get out. Maybe climb over some stuff. Easy. Nothing to worry about.

The first team was through in just over ten minutes. “Bluestreak and Sunstreaker, you’re up!” Kup hollered, then held up his hand as he reset his timer. “And go!”

Bluestreak and Sunstreaker roared into the opening. It was pitch black, and Bluestreak turned on his headlights. He saw the first green marker showing them which way to go, and they both squealed around the first turn.

Then they slammed on their brakes, skidding to a stop just short of a wall. A green arrow pointed up.

Sunstreaker transformed and crouched down, making a step with his hands. “I’ll give you a boost up, then you can pull me up behind you,” he said.

Nodding, Bluestreak put his pede into Sunstreaker’s hands. The yellow mech lifted him up, and he easily caught the edge of the wall and pulled himself on top of it. He found a handhold and reached down, grabbing Sunstreaker’s hand and hauling the larger mech up after him.

They made their way through the course like that, helping each other over and across barriers and gaps, climbing over boxes and bars that were supposed to represent debris. The corridor grew smaller and smaller as they went. Bluestreak had to pull his sensor wings in tight to keep them from scraping against the sides of the passage, while Sunstreaker moved bent over, grumbling about his finish with every step.

As the path through the course became even narrower, Bluestreak felt a tightness in his chest that grew with every step. He checked his chronometer: they’d only been in the course for seven minutes. “It can’t be too much further now,” he said, as much for Sunstreaker’s benefit as his own.

The next green arrow pointed down, into a low opening. Sunstreaker’s engine snarled when he saw it. “Great. A vent. Very realistic, but there goes my paint.” He crouched down and peered into it. “It looks like a straight shot. You go first, I’ll follow.”

Bluestreak hesitated, staring into the gaping black opening. “I can’t see anything in there,” he said, then reset his vocalizer. It had become spattered with static for some reason. He rubbed at his chest, trying to loosen up whatever the tightness he felt was. “It’s dark.”

“You’ve got headlights on your chest. Just crawl in and use those,” Sunstreaker said impatiently. “Or switch to infrared. But whatever you do, do it fast. We need to beat Sideswipe.”

“Yeah. Right.” Bluestreak nodded jerkily, and dropped to his hands and knees. “A straight shot, you said. Got it.” Then he crawled into the hole.

It was small. Bluestreak could feel the tips of his sensor wings scraping against the roof of the vent. He pulled them down tightly against his back. He crept forward, feeling his way with his hands. His headlights were aimed wrong to see anything ahead of him, so he switched to infrared like Sunstreaker had told him to. But even still, he couldn’t see much more. It was just a long, featureless tunnel. He couldn’t see the end of it.

“Come on, move!” Bluestreak felt a nudge on the back of his leg as Sunstreaker crawled into the vent behind him.

“I’m going,” Bluestreak said. He crawled forward another meter before stopping once more. The tips of his wings scraped the roof of the vent again. Was it getting smaller? “I don’t know if we’re going to fit,” he said. He was sure it was getting hotter in the vent, too. Were they pumping hot air in here for some reason?

He heard a rattling buzz and realized his cooling fans had kicked into a higher speed.

“Of course we’ll fit,” Sunstreaker said. “Roadbuster’s bigger than I am, and they made it through. You’ve got plenty of space.” He gave Bluestreak’s leg another shove. “Just go, already.”

Sunstreaker’s shove had been hard enough to push Bluestreak forward slightly. He scrabbled and dug his fingers into the floor of the vent. Every millimeter that he moved into the vent was another millimeter further away from where he had entered it. “Stop!” Bluestreak yelled. He cringed at the squeak in his voice. “Don’t push me!”

It was so hot. Bluestreak stared down at the far end of the vent, and couldn’t see anything except darkness. The rattling sound he had heard grew louder. What was that noise? His wings hurt. They were scraping against the side of the vent. The walls of the vent were definitely getting closer together.

“Are you all right?”

Bluestreak shook his helm. The walls of the vent were very close together now. It was so hot, blazingly hot. Something rattled. His wings hurt. He heard a buzzing sound. He heard a whining noise. He couldn’t tell where any of it was coming from.

“Bluestreak?”

“I... I can’t. It’s too hot. It’s too small. I can’t... I can’t get air. I can’t...”

Bluestreak gasped the words, hearing the static and hoping he could be understood. He didn’t know if Sunstreaker understood him. All he knew was that the vent was getting smaller. It was getting hotter. His wings hurt. It was crushing his wings. His shoulders brushed the sides of the vent. He was going to be trapped. He couldn’t move forward or back and he was going to be trapped in the vent.

“Come on, let’s go back. Can you move? I’ll pull you out.”

Something grabbed at his leg in the tight space and he felt himself slide backwards. His wings caught on the sides of the vent, and a jolt of pain shot through his shoulders as they were twisted in their hinges. A scream was ripped from his vocalizer. “Stop! Stop!” He kicked and flailed, fighting to stay where he was.

“All right, I’m sorry! Can you slide backwards on your own?”

_Can’t go forward. Can’t go back. The vent kept getting smaller. He couldn’t see forward. He couldn’t see backwards. He couldn’t move. The vent was closing on both sides, and he was going to be trapped, crushed to pieces, and he’d never see the sky again and he’d never see the stars and the sky and he’d be trapped underground not seeing the sky ever again and _

::Sergeant, I have a problem. Bluestreak’s having a... a panic attack or something.::

_A familiar voice, cutting through the panic like a beam of light through a dust storm but it slides away like mist focus can’t focus it’s so close it’s so hot it’s so small no air why isn’t there air_

::Bluestreak? Report.::

_A comm to him but the walls are so close why is it so small there’s no air no air can’t reply what’s that noise the whining why can’t he move can’t move_

::Can you access his medical ports? Run a diagnostic if you can.::

_Something on his back something touching his wings his wings they hurt the walls are closing in _

“Slaggit, Bluestreak! I’m trying to help you. Stop hitting me!”

_Something touching his back something touching his neck his medical port it sides open with a touch a plug slots into his neck port it’s too close it’s too much it’s too hot too small no air overheating no air no air **help no air!** **HELP NO AIR! NO AIR OVERHEATING NO AIR HELP HELP NO AIR**_

::His diagnostic program keeps looping and won’t run to completion. I think he’s overheating. What am I supposed to do?::

::We’re patching you through to medical, and we’ve got a team on the way in to get him out of there. Just hang on.::

::Sunstreaker, is it? This is First Aid. Can you drop him into protective stasis? Use medical code Alpha 904 Gamma-::

::I don’t know how to do that! Our field repair course didn’t cover this! He’s not missing an arm! His processor’s melting down!::

::It’s all right, I’ll walk you through it. Access his main power systems, in the core function directory. It’ll ask you for an access code. Just enter-::

_Alerts pinging on his HUD medical codes input no no **no air** let me go get me out too close help me **help me** help help_

_Processor load: **critical**_  
_ Spark spin rate: **critical**_  
_ Core temperature: **critical**_

::His systems aren’t accepting the code. Everything’s gone red! Get someone in here now!::

::A team is on the way, just hang on-::

****_Warning_  
Critical  
_**Warning**_  
_ **Critical**_  
_ **CRITICAL**_  
_** CRITICAL**_

::Now! Get someone here **now**!!::

_Emergency shutdown initiated._

...

_Initiating reboot._

Bluestreak was all too familiar with the beeping sound made by a spark monitor. He was lying on his back, his sensor wings supported by cushions. He onlined his optics to see bright lights over the berth.

He sifted through his memory files, but the last hour or so that had been saved was corrupted somehow. According to his chronometer he’d been offline for about three hours after that.

“Welcome back,” a gentle voice said. Bluestreak tipped his helm to the side and saw a visored doctor taking readings from one of the monitors. Bluestreak remembered him: First Aid was the doctor who had performed his initial medical exam at the start of camp.

“I guess this is where I’m supposed to ask what happened,” Bluestreak said. Now that he was online, his self-repair systems gave him a cursory damage report: gouges in his shoulder and back plating, deep scrapes and dents on his sensor wings, and dents all down his legs. Worse, the tips of his wings had been scored down to the underplating. Everything hurt.

First Aid set his data pad aside and focused on him. “You had a panic attack,” First Aid said. “Your processor got caught in a loop, and your frame started overheating. Fortunately your emergency protocols kicked in and sent you into shutdown before the file corruption could spread.”

“A panic attack?” Bluestreak cycled through the memories from that morning again: coming out of recharge, grabbing a fuel ration, starting the morning laps around the field while joking with Sideswipe... Then it all became garbled. Something about Sunstreaker? Were they in a race?

First Aid adjusted a dial on the spark monitor, and the beeping stopped. He looked back to Bluestreak and nodded. “Yes. It was pretty much a textbook attack. According to your partner, it manifested when you had to crawl into a small, dark space during an obstacle course exercise.” First Aid exuded calm as he looked at Bluestreak. “Has anything like this ever happened to you before?”

“Not that I remember,” Bluestreak said, and shook his helm. “But I don’t know what happened to me before Praxus.”

“Yes, I’ve read your medical history,” First Aid said, picking up his data pad again and consulting it. “The camp psychologist is going to take a closer look at the readings we gathered, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this had something to do with your experiences in Praxus.”

Bluestreak frowned. Praxus. How could something he didn’t remember possibly affect him so deeply? Then he recalled the sessions with Smokescreen a year before, and he sank back into the cushions on the berth. “The spark remembers,” he murmured.

First Aid nodded. “Claustrophobia is a reasonably common ailment from mechs who’ve experienced some kind of trauma like you did. Even if your memory files were wiped, whatever happened to you when Praxus was destroyed could have imprinted itself on your spark.” He shrugged. “It could have some other cause, of course, but the simplest explanation is often the correct one.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Bluestreak said dubiously. He’d been in a few small spaces before, and had never had that kind of reaction. Just last week, he and Goldbug had been assigned to clean out the energon filtration tanks. That had been hard, dirty work, and they’d been stuck inside the tanks for almost two hours. It had been boring, not scary. Then again, the lids of the tanks had been removed, and they could still see out. Maybe that was the difference? Being able to see the sky?

Would he ever know?

He focused on First Aid as the doctor spoke again. “When Rung comes to do the assessment, we’re going to look at installing a tranquilizer program for you,” First Aid said. “The program will monitor your processor state. If you begin experiencing something like this in the future, the program should kick in automatically and help work you through it.” His visor glinted as he tipped his helm to the side cheerily. “Once we’ve done that, we’ll release you back to your squad. They’ve been worried about you.”

“Really?” Bluestreak liked everyone in his squad. Hearing that they were concerned about him made him feel warm inside.

First Aid nodded. “Especially the mech who was with you – Sunstreaker? He’s commed me about every twenty minutes to see how you’re doing. I think he thought he did something to cause your panic attack.”

“He didn’t, did he?” Bluestreak asked.

“No.” First Aid shook his helm. “I told him that it wasn’t his fault, but I don’t think he trusts me.” He patted Bluestreak on the shoulder. “Get some rest. You burned through a lot of energy this morning. Rung should be here in a little while.”

Bluestreak nodded and closed his optics as First Aid walked away. He tried to summon up the memories from that morning again, but they came to him in pieces. All he could remember was a sense of dread, and darkness, and the despair of never being able to see Luna 1 rise over the horizon into the Cybertronian night sky ever again.

* * *

“I don’t understand why I got classified as an artillery mech,” Bluestreak groused. He kicked at a stone on the ground. “You saw my aptitude scores. I scored way better in a bunch of other things.”

Prowl made a non-committal sound. “There are lots of reasons why you may have been selected for artillery,” he said. “Your aptitude scores are only part of the picture. We need to keep our forces balanced. I know that we are in need of good snipers right now, and marksmanship is something you excel at.”

“But what a waste!” Bluestreak exclaimed. They caught up to the stone he’d kicked as they walked, and he gave it another punt. It bounced off the side of the path and became lost in the jumble of rocks that lined the walkway. “The tech who did the first test said I scored off the charts for data analysis. He said he’d never **seen** scores that high. Then the crypto test was even easier. I cracked the encryption before they’d even explained how the test worked.”

Prowl raised a brow ridge at him. “Perhaps that’s why you were not selected for Special Operations. Following instructions is very important in that unit.”

Bluestreak scowled at the ground. “I already knew what they wanted me to do. Why should I wait for them to explain it?” He thought back to the tests, and how easily he’d been able complete them. The analysis test had been fun, like a puzzle, and he had been proud of how quickly he’d sorted everything. But the crypto test was so simple he couldn’t believe that anyone did poorly on it, let alone fail to complete it at all. “It’s not fair.”

They walked in silence for another minute before Prowl sighed. “I am sorry you didn’t get the assignment you’d been hoping for,” he said. He looked at Bluestreak and tipped a sensor wing up encouragingly. “But Special Ops is a very dangerous unit, especially for new recruits. You’ll be far safer working the rear lines as a sniper.”

“It didn’t have to be Special Ops,” Bluestreak said. He heard the whine creeping into his voice and made an effort to keep his tone more even. “I could have worked in Tactical, with you. That’s safer than artillery. Helping you guys sift through intelligence, looking for patterns... That’s exactly what the analysis test was all about, and I rocked that! I mean, I’d have to get top secret clearance, but I’m sure that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“You could put in for reclassification, if you wish,” Prowl said, but the set of his sensor wings told Bluestreak that the white and black mech was sure that nothing would come of Bluestreak’s request. “Or you could accept your assignment, and do the best job you can possibly do to support the Autobot cause in the role you have been given.”

Bluestreak’s engine growled. “I guess,” he muttered. Sure, he was a pretty good shot. No, strike that: he was a **fantastic** shot. It was so easy for him to predict where a shot would go, even when the target was kilometers away. The sensors in his wings gave him a huge amount of information about the air currents and density, and it was simple for him to calculate how to adjust his aim. He knew he would be a great sniper, but... He tried to picture sighting another mech through a rifle scope and pulling the trigger. He shuddered as he realized that doing exactly that was now in his immediate future. It had been different when it was just abstract targets, not actual living beings. “I just don’t know if I want to be directly responsible for killing mechs,” he said softly.

Prowl stopped walking suddenly, and stared at Bluestreak. His sensor wings flicked once. “You won’t be killing just any ‘mechs.’ You’ll be firing on **Decepticons**.”

“Decepticons are still mechs.” Bluestreak put his hand on his chest. “I know they’re bad but... What did they do to **me**?”

“They killed... They almost **killed** you,” Prowl said, his optics flashing dangerously. “They **destroyed** our city. They slaughtered almost every Praxian who lived there. They’ve been responsible for the deaths of millions of Autobots and Neutrals.”

Bluestreak threw his arms in the air. “I know. I know! But the Autobots have killed just as many Decepticons. And they’re fighting for something, too! You can’t possibly tell me that every single Decepticon is a power-crazed freak like Megatron.”

“No. They aren’t. But even if they aren’t out for conquest, they are still fighting alongside Megatron. They are still fighting for his vision of utter dominance. Do you know what Megatron’s ultimate goal is?” Prowl made a fist and held it up. “Peace through tyranny. He wants complete power. He wants to rule, and he doesn’t care how many mechs he needs to kill in order to attain his goal. We must stop Megatron, no matter the cost. And that means fighting – and **killing** – the mechs who support him and his goals.” Prowl pointed at the freshly-applied Autobot brand on Bluestreak’s chest armor. “You swore an oath, not even an hour ago, to uphold the Autobot code, to fight for freedom and for justice. Are you going to back away from that already?”

Bluestreak turned away from Prowl, stomping a few steps away from the other Praxian. His processor was awash with conflicting thoughts. “No!” he snapped. “Of course not.” His hand came to rest over the brand on his chest. He’d been so proud of it just a little while ago, and now...

He heard the crunching sound of pedes on pebbles as Prowl came up behind him. “War is not easy,” Prowl said, his voice much more gentle than it had been a moment before. “I’ve seen the horrors it’s caused, and I mourn for the lives that have been destroyed... Autobot and Decepticon alike. But I do not want to see Cybertron fall under Megatron’s rule. If he wins, we may have peace, but we will have no freedom.” His hand came to rest on Bluestreak’s shoulder. “I can’t let that happen.”

Bluestreak stared out at the plains that surrounded the Autobot training camp, remembering the conversations he’d had with others over the past two years about why they fought. He remembered Hound, and how he’d originally been sympathetic to the Decepticon cause until the rhetoric had turned to violence. He remembered the stories Sideswipe had told him, of how he and Sunstreaker had been freed from the pits by Megatron, only to be horrified by the vicious in-fighting that Megatron encouraged in his ranks. He remembered all of the documentaries and analysis that Prowl had given to him after he’d been brought back online, explaining how awful the Decepticons really were.

He remembered proudly reciting the Autobot oath just an hour ago.

He pulled a full vent cycle, then turned to face Prowl. “Maybe being a sniper won’t be so bad after all,” he said, forcing a smile onto his lips. “But tell me how to apply to be reclassified?”

Prowl smiled, and patted him on the shoulder as they turned to continue walking. “Of course,” Prowl said. “I’ll send you the information tomorrow.”

* * *

Bluestreak shifted his grip on his rifle and scanned the horizon again. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, just like he hadn’t for the past three hours. And the six months before that. Nothing ever happened here.

Not that he was complaining. He wasn’t! The Autobot headquarters in Rodion were as far from the front lines as you could get on the planet, so there was almost no chance of Bluestreak having to fire on other mechs. Prowl had arranged that: both to keep Bluestreak from having to kill, and to keep him safe. Bluestreak appreciated it, but he also felt as though it was so that Prowl could keep an optic on him.

Maybe a little action wouldn’t have been so bad, after all.

But nothing of interest ever happened at the Rodion base, which meant that Bluestreak was bored. The friends he’d made in basic training had all been assigned to other units. He occasionally got letters from Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, but they were a poor substitute for having the brothers nearby so they could just talk. And Bluestreak hadn’t had any luck making friends at the base. The mechs in the Rodion unit had sorted themselves into little cliques before Bluestreak had arrived. He tried to make friends, but it seemed like the other mechs here wanted nothing to do with him. With no one to talk to, he’d burned through the entire library of entertainment media the base had, even watching the sappy romances and a very strange drama done entirely in Primal Vernacular with subtitles.

Desperate for something to keep his processor occupied, he had finally asked Prowl what kinds of things he had liked doing before he’d been damaged, before Praxus. He hoped that one of his previous pastimes would help keep him occupied. Unfortunately, none of the suggestions that Prowl gave him were much help. The base had no library to speak of, so he couldn’t get ahold of any mystery novels to read. There definitely wasn’t any theatre to watch. Tending crystals seemed unspeakably dull to Bluestreak, even if Prowl said that Bluestreak used to find it meditative. Bluestreak couldn’t see how poking at some shards of crystal every few weeks could possibly be considered a hobby. And no one on base had an instrument that Bluestreak knew of, let alone a vibroflute that they were willing to teach him to play.

Bluestreak started dreading his off-hours, since he knew he’d probably spend it trying to keep himself occupied... And failing.

About two weeks ago, while poking at the base network looking for something else to entertain himself with, Bluestreak found a way to get into the Autobot datanet. And yes, at the time he knew that he probably shouldn’t be poking around in there. He didn’t have the security clearance for it, and he had to slip between a few firewalls to gain access, but seriously... What else was he supposed to do? Stare at the ceiling in his off-duty hours? It wasn’t like anyone wanted to talk to him.

He didn’t look at anything super classified in the datanet (even though he could have), and he certainly didn’t go poking around in personnel files or anything like that. Bluestreak just looked at some of the intelligence that had been collected for the fighting near Vaporex and Polyhex. He did a quick analysis of the troop movements and figured out that the Autobots were probably planning on doing a push towards Nyon. Then he gave a curious glance at the resourcing algorithms that determined how fighting units were distributed and recalled regularly to keep them from tiring.

Ok, so maybe he had spent the better part of an afternoon doing all of that. But he was so **bored**!

And sure... A small part of him hoped that he would get caught. The reclassification he’d applied for had been turned down. A part of him thought that that cracking into the datanet should convince the base officers that he was being wasted sitting in a guard tower day after day, staring at the horizon and watching for Decepticons that were never coming. But when he was caught (after all, he didn’t bother trying to cover his tracks), the reaction wasn’t exactly what he was expecting.

“I don’t care if you’re bored,” Prowl had said, glaring up at Bluestreak from behind his desk. “You can’t just hack your way into datanets that you have not been granted access to.”

“Then maybe they should have better security,” Bluestreak said. He stood at attention, and his optics were fixed on a point over Prowl’s helm. But even though he wasn’t looking directly at Prowl, he knew that was the wrong answer to give by the rev of Prowl’s engine. Bluestreak lowered his sensor wings and added, “And I sort of did you guys a favour by showing you a back door in the datanet. You should get that fixed.”

That was **definitely** the wrong answer.

Prowl stood up, his wings flared outwards, and he stalked around the desk to stand right in front of Bluestreak. “Do you think this is funny?”

“No! I don’t, I swear.” Bluestreak refocused his optics on Prowl and let his shoulders slump slightly. “I said I was sorry, Prowl,” he said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. “I was just so bored.”

Prowl’s lips were pressed into a thin line, and he stared at Bluestreak as if trying to delve into his processor. “Promise me that you won’t do this again,” he finally said.

“Or what?” Bluestreak asked, allowing himself a small smile. “You’ll kick me out of the Autobots?”

Prowl’s expression shifted from a glare to a sad frown. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Unauthorized use of the datanet is a court martial offence. You would be tried, found guilty, and then thrown into military prison.”

Bluestreak knew all of that. But Prowl had been so protective of Bluestreak ever since he’d come back online in the Iacon hospital, steering him towards safe paths and keeping him close by his side. Prowl had covered for him a few times before, like when Bluestreak had gotten caught in a prank masterminded by Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Bluestreak just assumed that Prowl would be able to fix any stupid mistakes Bluestreak made.

Maybe this was one misstep that Prowl wouldn’t be able to fix.

Prowl seemed to take Bluestreak’s silence as resistance, and he flicked his sensor wings outwards before turning back to his desk. “I had to pull a lot of strings to get you off the hook this time,” Prowl said, the hard edge returning to his voice. “Red Alert was ready to throw you into detention as soon as your intrusion was detected. I talked him out of it.” Prowl strode around his desk and stood behind his chair, lightly resting his hands on its back as he glared at Bluestreak. “I refuse to place myself between your own stupidity and a jail cell a second time, Private.”

Bluestreak’s optics widened at Prowl’s use of his rank instead of his name. He snapped his helm up and straightened his back, returning to a very proper attention stance. “I understand, sir,” he said crisply. “I promise that I will not do it again.”

Prowl waited a beat before nodding and taking his seat. “Very well. Dismissed.” He didn’t look up as Bluestreak turned and left his office.

In the watchtower, Bluestreak watched as a dust devil spun its way across the plains surrounding the base. Idly, he wondered if Prowl had been such a hardaft when they were crossing cables, back before the war. It was a shame that there was no one left alive who knew them both who could tell him if Prowl had changed... Or if Bluestreak had. He wondered how much the war and the weight of his duties had changed Prowl.

All he knew was that he could never see himself being in an intimate relationship with someone like Prowl. Friends? Sure. Lovers? No fragging way, pardon the pun.

The roar of engines interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up as a team of two aerials and a rotary rose into the air and headed west. They flew in a precise formation, the wingleader flanked by his wingmates.

Bluestreak loved watching flight frames in the sky, but he especially loved rotaries. Airframes seemed to move so effortlessly, swooping and gliding as they took advantage of air currents and winds. Even shuttles, who sometimes looked so ungainly on the ground, moved through the air like they were part of the sky itself. It was beautiful, like watching a dance. He wished he could be up there, dancing with them, instead of being stuck on the ground.

But rotaries were something else again. They seemed to defy gravity, smoothly maneuvering in any direction on a whim. If watching aerials was like watching a dance, watching rotaries was like watching someone cast a spell. It was mesmerizing.

He tracked the fliers until they were lost in the dusty haze that the winds were kicking up from the plains. Then, with a sigh, he lowered his optics and scanned the horizon again.

In the distance, Bluestreak saw a cloud of dust rising from the ground. He looked down at his data pad, and saw that an Autobot unit was scheduled to arrive this afternoon from that direction. Still, protocol was protocol, and after his run-in with Prowl over his datanet hacking, Bluestreak had been very careful to follow every single rule and command to the letter.

Mostly.

He opened a comm line on a public channel. ::Rodion Watchtower Beta to approaching mechs. Identify yourselves and provide clearance code.::

::Watchtower Beta, this is Eremus Unit Theta 8. Clearance code 824 Bravo Bravo 4.::

::Eremus Unit Theta 8, acknowledged. Welcome to Rodion, and enjoy your stay.::

Technically that last bit wasn’t part of the protocol, but there wasn’t anything saying that he **couldn’t** welcome them. It just seemed like the friendly thing to do, Bluestreak thought.

It took the approaching unit the better part of an hour to navigate the rough road to reach the base. When they were still about fifteen minutes out, Bluestreak’s relief arrived, announcing himself with a groan as he clambered up the last few steps of the tower.

“You’d think they could put in a lift or something? These steps get steeper every day,” Mudslinger moaned as he finally made it to the top of the tower. He looked out at the approaching unit. “You called those in, right?”

“Of course. It’s all in the log. The winds have been picking up, but the visibility hasn’t been too bad. It’s been pretty quiet otherwise, just like usual.” Bluestreak handed Mudslinger the datapad and gave him a sloppy salute. “I’m going to go say hi when they get here. Have a good watch!” He started making his way down the tower’s stairs.

“They’re gonna be tired and not want to chat, Bluestreak!” Mudslinger called down after him. “Don’t talk their audials off as soon as they get here!”

Bluestreak ignored Mudslinger’s jibe and continued down the stairs. He knew what his reputation was to the other mechs on base: if you let Bluestreak start talking, he’d never shut up. The story going around was that he wouldn’t shut up because talking kept the ghosts of Praxus out of his processor or some nonsense like that. But no matter how Bluestreak tried to explain that he didn’t remember what happened at Praxus, the story stuck: Bluestreak talked and talked so that he wouldn’t go crazy.

It stung a little, to be honest. He tried to rein in his talkative ways, but it was hard for him to do. He had so little social interaction on base that when he was given a chance to talk, he didn’t want to let go of it too soon.

All right, maybe he was bored **and** a little lonely.

He reached the bottom of the tower just as the visiting unit drove through the gates of the base. All of the mechs were covered in a layer of fine red dust, even obscuring their Autobot brands. They rolled to a stop and transformed, all of them stretching and making noises of relief. Bluestreak wondered how long they’d been driving before arriving at Rodion.

As the unit commander walked up to the base’s duty officer, Bluestreak looked over the mechs who’d just arrived. The unit was a strange hodge-podge of various types: racing frames, cargo haulers, and several truck frames. Two mechs without vehicle modes climbed out of a cargo trailer and started unloading gear. Bluestreak was wondering what sort of missions the unit was sent on when he recognized one of the mechs standing in the middle of the group.

Bluestreak’s sensor wings rose, and he waved his hand excitedly. “Hound!” he called.

The dusty green mech turned and saw him. Immediately, Hound grinned and lifted a hand in greeting. “Bluestreak!” Hound said, jogging towards him. He gripped Bluestreak’s forearm, then yanked him into an embrace, slapping him on the back. “What a surprise! So you decided to join the Autobots, huh?” he asked as they pulled apart again, looking at the brand on Bluestreak’s chest.

“Yeah,” Bluestreak said. He smiled, letting his sensor wings quiver behind him to show how happy he was at seeing his old friend again. “It was actually the things you said that helped talk me into it.”

“It was?” Hound’s optics widened in surprise, then he laughed. “Well, whatever the reason, it’s great to see you again.” He slapped Bluestreak on the back again, sending up a cloud of red dust, and nudged him towards the mechs who he’d arrived with. “We’ll have to get caught up on what you’ve been up to, but I want to introduce you to my unit first.”

Unlike the other mechs at the base, Hound’s unit took to Bluestreak right away. Bluestreak wondered if it was because Hound had vouched for him, or whether they were just more friendly and open than the cliquish mechs on the base. But whatever the reason, they didn’t seem to mind when Bluestreak started on a long explanation about something.

And the stories they told him in return! Bluestreak sat with them in the mess hall as they regaled him with tales of their adventures across the wilds of Cybertron, searching out sources of energon and reporting on Decepticon activities. They explained that their unit served as advance scouts, one of the many sources of information that fed into the Autobot intelligence network. They had a variety of frame types to ensure that they could handle any situation that they ran into, and they were occasionally in the field for months at a time.

It sounded fascinating. It sounded far more interesting than sitting in a watchtower and staring at a dusty horizon for hours on end.

Bluestreak finally had to admit to himself that he was a little jealous.

On the third day that Hound’s unit was at the base, Prowl called Bluestreak into his office. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been spending a lot of time with Eremus Unit, and Hound,” Prowl said. “Are you getting along with them?”

“Yes, sir,” Bluestreak said stiffly, not sure what Prowl was getting at. Was he not supposed to make friends now? Was Prowl going to force him not to speak to Hound? He remembered how Prowl had frowned back when he’d heard Hound was in the same rehab clinic as Bluestreak back in the hospital. Maybe Prowl disapproved of Hound for some reason.

Bluestreak’s spark sank.

He’d fixed his optics on a spot over Prowl’s helm, thoroughly expecting to be berated again for doing something Prowl didn’t want him to do. When there was only silence, Bluestreak ventured to glance at Prowl. The other Praxian had his hands folded on his desk in front of him, and was looking up at Bluestreak with a sad look. When he saw Bluestreak look at him, he shook his helm. “At ease, Bluestreak. Have a seat.” Prowl gestured at the chair across from him.

Bluestreak sat in the chair gingerly, still half expecting to be yelled at for spending too much time chatting and not enough time on the practice range or something. But Prowl kept looking at him with a thoughtfully sad look, and Bluestreak felt his sensor wings quiver nervously.

Finally, Prowl said, “I know that you haven’t been happy here. Ever since you were brought back online in Iacon, you’ve shown yourself to be curious and intelligent, constantly seeking out new things to keep your processor occupied.” He pulled a deep vent. “I admit that I was treating you as if you had all of your old memories, your old tastes and preferences, and your old... feelings.” Prowl’s voice caught on his words, and he paused to reset his vocalizer. “And I know that is not fair to you.”

Prowl paused again, and Bluestreak resisted the urge to fidget or shrug. How was he supposed to reply to that? He settled for saying, “It’s all right, Prowl.”

Prowl shook his helm. “No, it’s not,” he said. He seemed to collect himself, and then looked at Bluestreak evenly. “I admit that I’ve wanted to keep you close to me, but at the same time that meant limiting your experiences. You’ve demonstrated that you are bored with watch duty and patrols. You’ve shown that you need more stimulation to keep you engaged. And you’ve obviously made a friend in Hound.” Prowl flashed him a sad smile. “So, I want to offer you a transfer to Eremus Unit Theta 8.”

Bluestreak stared at Prowl for a moment as he processed what he had heard. Then he lifted his sensor wings and sat forward. “A transfer? Really?”

“Yes. But think it over carefully before you answer.” Prowl held up a hand in caution. “While they are a scouting unit, they encounter combat on a regular basis,” he said. “They also provide support for other units in larger operations. The position you’ll be filling is a gunner and sharpshooter, which means you will be asked to fire on enemy mechs. Decepticons.” Prowl’s optics were fixed on Bluestreak as he spoke. “Previously, you expressed a reluctance to do that. In a combat situation, your unit will be depending on you. Their lives may depend on your ability to pull the trigger without hesitation.” He paused. “Are you willing to do that when asked?”

Bluestreak frowned, leaning back in his chair again. He knew that Hound’s unit had seen combat; some of the stories they’d told him over the past few days involved the fighting that they’d seen. And he also knew that they’d lost mechs to the fighting. He wondered whether that was why they had an empty position: was their last gunner killed?

But something else had shone through in their stories: their devotion to the Autobots, and some of the horrors they’d seen the Decepticons inflict. Atrocities like prisoners being forced to mine energon until their frames gave out, and they were executed where they lay. Brutalities like mechs being tortured for information. They’d even seen Decepticons turning on one another like mechanimals, fighting for dominance amongst themselves.

Then Bluestreak pictured himself holding his rifle like he did every day on the practice range, and firing it at another mech’s helm. He thought... No, he **knew** that if he saw these same horrors for himself, he would have no problem making the shot.

“Yes,” Bluestreak replied, meeting Prowl’s gaze. “I would absolutely be willing to do that.”

A strange expression crossed Prowl’s face, something that might have looked like gratification if it hadn’t also been matched by his sad smile. But then his smile widened, and he nodded. “All right then,” he said. “I’ll start the paperwork for your transfer.”


	3. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak’s career in the Autobots progresses (and stalls), his friendship with Hound grows into something more, and the war escalates.

“There you are.” Hound dropped to the ground next to Bluestreak. “You missed rations again. I grabbed yours so that Chromia wouldn’t yell at you again for under-fueling yourself.”

Bluestreak glanced at the cube that Hound held out to him, then smiled at his friend. “Thanks. I sort of lost track of time.” He set the cube aside and turned back to his rifle, which was still scattered in parts on the ground in front of him. “I’ll drink it as soon as I’m done with this.”

Hound watched Bluestreak clean the refractor coil, then carefully slot the flashguard against the body of the gun. “I can leave you alone if you want,” Hound said after a few minutes.

“No, it’s all right. I’m almost done.” Bluestreak slid the jacket over the assembled rifle, and then inserted the battery clip. He turned it over in his hands once more, checking all of the connections, before setting it aside and picking up the fuel cube. “I just needed some time to think for a bit, and cleaning my weapon helps me organize my thoughts.”

Hound nodded. “You’ve mentioned that before.” He sipped at his own ration, then asked, “Did you want to talk about it?”

Bluestreak shrugged and peeled the top from his cube. “Nothing much to talk about. I was just thinking about... You know, stuff.” He tipped the cube back and took a gulp.

“I’ve never known you to not want to talk about something,” Hound said quietly. When Bluestreak looked up at him, Hound was watching him with an intent look. “Was it about today’s battle?”

With a soft huff of air from his vents, Bluestreak nodded. “Yeah.” He looked down at his hands, turning his free hand over to look at his palm, noting the gun oil that had seeped into the gaps between the joints that made up his hand. “How did you know?”

Hound leaned back against the trailer that Bluestreak was hiding behind and finished his ration before answering. “Things I know. Things you’ve said. And a guess.” He glanced at Bluestreak. “This is your first tour since leaving Rodion. I know you didn’t see any fighting there. And I know what we’ve run into since you’ve joined us.”

“We’ve seen fighting before this,” Bluestreak retorted. He grimaced at how sharp his voice had become, and he reset it, trying to keep the memory of the past afternoon from replaying. “I’ve killed ‘Cons before.”

Hound made a sound of disagreement. “That was just guerilla stuff before. Taking pot-shots at ‘Cons from a distance, setting off their traps, little hit-and-runs. We were just disrupting their plans, and maybe taking a few of them out in the process.” He nudged the cube in Bluestreak’s hand, urging him to keep fueling, before continuing. “This was the first real firefight we’ve seen since you joined us.” He watched as Bluestreak took another swallow of fuel. “This was the first time we could actually see their faces.”

Bluestreak wasn’t sure if Hound had meant to do it, but his words made the memory replay with perfect clarity. He remembered how he’d provided cover fire for his unit as they roared into the Decepticon camp. He remembered each sharp crack as he pulled the trigger on his rifle. He remembered watching each Decepticon fall as his shot found its mark.

He hadn’t realized he was staring at the empty cube in his hand when Hound patted his knee. “Come on,” Hound said. “Let’s go for a little walk.”

Hound led him behind another trailer, this one angled so that it totally blocked the light from the generator at the center of camp. Hound stopped and looked up, and Bluestreak followed his gaze.

The sky above them was spattered with stars. Some twinkled, flickering like sparks in the darkness, while others shone with a steady and pure light. To the left, the Hydrus nebula rose, streaking the night with reds and yellows.

Bluestreak stared up at the beauty, not sure how he’d missed seeing all of these stars come out as the sky darkened. Maybe it was because he’d been facing the generator in camp with its bright white glow.

“It’ll be another hour or so before Luna 1 rises and washes this all out,” Hound said, looking upwards with a small smile on his lips. He pointed to their right. “And look: there’s one of our comm satellites.” He was silent for a minute, then said, “Yeah, that’s one of ours.”

Bluestreak shook his helm in wonder as he took in the blanket of lights over his helm. “How do you know it’s one of ours?” he asked. “Or when Luna 1 rises?”

Hound tapped the side of his helm, his finger creating a quiet chime against the metal. “I installed star charts about a hundred years ago, and try to keep them updated. They come in handy for when our nav system goes down: we can just look to the stars for direction.” He leaned back against the trailer, resting his helm against its side. “There’s something poetic about that, I think.”

Hound’s shoulder was warm against Bluestreak’s arm. Bluestreak let himself relax, taking in the quiet sounds of the outback around them, and the burble of discussion and laughter from the other members of their unit as they sat around the generator behind them.

It was easy to forget all that had happened that day.

They stood there in silence for several minutes. Then Hound said, “You know, it’s all right to feel conflicted about killing mechs, even if they are Decepticons.” He kept looking up at the stars, so he didn’t see the quick glance that Bluestreak threw his way. “I know I felt really awful when I got my first kill.”

Bluestreak thought again of the feel of his rifle in his hands, of the tension in the trigger, of the steady churn of data and measurements as he made each shot. Then he shook his helm. “That’s the thing,” he said. “I didn’t feel anything. Not like I’d expected to.” Bluestreak looked down at his hands again, flexing his fingers. They were stained with gun oil instead of energon. Was there a difference? “I’d expected to feel upset, or sad, or angry, or... **Anything**.” He looked at Hound again. “There wasn’t anything except a... Except a feeling of satisfaction at having made the shot.”

“There’s no rule book for how you’re supposed to feel or react to things,” Hound said quietly. “There isn’t a wrong or right answer to how your spark feels about things.”

Rubbing his hand over his chest, Bluestreak hummed quietly. “It’s funny you should say that. Back when I was still in the hospital, Smokescreen told me to be aware for any feelings that weren’t what I was expecting. Things that I didn’t think I should be feeling. He said that they could be coming from my spark, remembering things that my processor couldn’t.” He dropped his hand and let his helm fall back against the trailer. “If I don’t feel upset about having killed eight mechs today, maybe my spark is used to it. Maybe I’m a killer.” 

Hound made a sound of disagreement. “You said you were in the Civil Defense Corps.”

“That’s what Prowl told me, and he had pictures and stuff to back it up.” Bluestreak shrugged. “But what if he’s not telling me the whole story? What if I was... I don’t know, part of their strike team or something?”

“I don’t think the Praxian Civil Defense Corps **had** a strike team, Blue,” Hound said.

Bluestreak waved his hand dismissively. “You know what I mean. And I don’t need to know the details. But what if I – my spark – is so used to killing that it just doesn’t faze me?” He tipped his helm to the side and looked at Hound. “They say the more often you do something, the easier it becomes. I don’t want to be good at killing.”

Hound quietly blew air through his vents. “And yet, here we are,” he said. His optics glowed in the darkness as he looked up at the sky. “I’ve lost track of how many Decepticons I’ve killed on my own, never mind taken out with traps or bombs and stuff.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “I never wanted to be good at killing, but the alternative is giving up.”

“I guess,” Bluestreak said. He gnawed on his lower lip, thinking about all of the conversations he’d had with Prowl about the Decepticons and what they’d done: to Praxus, to the Autobots, and to Cybertron. He hoped that he wasn’t becoming like them. He hoped Hound would tell him if he was.

Then he became conscious of Hound’s shoulder against his again. He remembered how Hound had brought him his fuel, and came to check on him. He thought of Hound’s easy smile, and how easily they talked.

Bluestreak smiled. He knew Hound would tell him if he was turning into something he didn’t want to be.

They stood in silence for another minute, watching the stars.

Another satellite crossed the dark sky, a point of light moving quickly across the starfield behind it. “Is that one of ours?” Bluestreak asked.

Hound watched the satellite, then said, “I don’t know. It must be new. It’s not on my charts.”

“Well then... Just in case...” Bluestreak stepped away from the trailer, and made a rude gesture at the passing mote of light. “Suck on a tailpipe, Decepticreeps!”

Hound laughed, then clapped Bluestreak on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to the generator before they miss us.” 

* * *

Bluestreak fired another round of shots before ducking down behind the boulder, covering his helm as he was sprayed by chips of rock. “They’ve got us pinned down,” he snarled over the sound of the Decepticon laser fire.

Beside him, Wideload ejected the spent clip from his rifle and shoved in a fresh one. “Of course they have us pinned down,” he grumbled. He peered over the top of the boulder and fired off a barrage of shots before lowering his helm again. “They came out of nowhere. They knew we were going to be here. This is a disaster!”

Bluestreak didn’t know if he would call it a disaster, but it definitely wasn’t a good situation. It looked grim for both of them, cut off from the rest of the Autobots.

Ok, maybe it **did** fit the definition of a disaster.

They had rendezvoused with several other Autobot units earlier that day, preparing for a large operation near Kaon. Sergeant Chromia had explained that if they were successful, the mission would cut off a vital supply link for the Decepticons, crippling their ability to repair and construct new mechs for their army.

But while they were driving to the staging area, the Autobots were ambushed by Decepticons. Boxed in, the Autobots had nowhere to go except down into a blind canyon, where they found themselves trapped. All of the Autobots were scattered as they scrambled to whatever safety they could find in the canyon’s rocks and crevices as the Decepticons rained fire down on them from above. Bluestreak couldn’t tell how many Decepticons there were, since he had been too busy running for cover to count them. There could have been five, or there could have been twenty. He had no idea.

The Autobot comm channels were a confusion of voices and crosstalk, while the air was filled with the sound of blaster fire and screams.

There were a lot of screams.

Sergeant Chromia’s voice cut through the comm chatter. ::Chromia to all artillery mechs! If any of you are still alive, we need some cover fire now! Transmitting coord-:: Her voice cut off suddenly and the channel went dead.

“That’s our cue,” Bluestreak said. He leaned out from their hiding place and fired again at the Decepticons. He couldn’t even see any other Autobots, so he didn’t know where he was supposed to be providing cover fire, who he was supposed to be protecting... Nothing. His engine growled in frustration.

He could see several Decepticons standing on the cliffs overhead. But he knew that if he leaned out far enough to get a good shot, they would have a clear shot of him. So he fired in their general direction, hoping that one of his shots might get lucky.

“I don’t know what your sergeant has planned, but I can’t see anyone else,” Wideload said. He repeated Bluestreak’s firing pattern after Bluestreak laid himself flat against the boulder again. “And I can’t get a good shot at those ‘Cons. We’re either going to keep firing at each other until we all run out of ammunition,” Wideload said, sending two pulses of shots up towards the Decepticons overhead, “or they’ve got something else waiting for us.”

“Like what? A trailer full of more Decepticons?” Bluestreak asked. He craned his neck to look around. He suddenly realized that the laser fire coming from the Decepticons had stopped, and he turned his helm to mention this to Wideload.

Before he could say a word, Bluestreak heard a loud transformation noise. He froze. The transformation noise was followed by clangs and the groan of heavy machinery. “What is that?” Bluestreak asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Wideload whispered back.

They both peeked out from over top of their boulder, then ducked back down as soon as they saw it.

“What the frag is **that**?” Wideload squeaked.

Bluestreak’s optics were wide as he looked back at Wideload. “I think it’s a fragging combiner!” he said softly.

They’d only had their first briefing about the Decepticon combiner technology a few days before. Somehow, the Decepticons had figured out how to modify protoforms and frames and sparks and processors and subspace and who knew what else so that mechs could bring themselves together to create a new, gigantic mech. Four or five mechs could combine to form a completely new mech who towered over everyone but titans. The whole thing had seemed utterly fantastical when Bluestreak heard the briefing: how could it even work? How would it even walk? Who would agree to have themselves irrevocably modified like that? It seemed utterly insane.

And yet, standing just a scant hundred meters away from him was a huge mech, with limbs made out of individual mechs and a scowling helm perched atop a torso that held it all together somehow. As Bluestreak cowered behind the boulder, he heard a deep voice roar in anger. Then he flinched when he heard the crash of metal against rock.

Frag them. They were so dead.

Where in the Pit were the rest of the Autobots?

Wideload peered out from behind their rock again. “I think it’s going after the others,” he said.

Bluestreak ventured another look, and saw the combiner had its back to them. It was pounding on a rock face opposite them, as if trying to peel open the narrow crevice in the rock. With a surge of certainty, Bluestreak said, “The other Autobots are in there,” he whispered, pointing at the crevice.

“Then let’s get his attention away from them!” Wideload said, surging to his pedes. Before Bluestreak could stop him, he stood up with his rifle ready at his shoulder.

He’d obviously forgotten the Decepticons still standing on the cliff looking down at them.

Bluestreak didn’t hear the gunshot, but he heard the hollow whack as the round hit Wideload. The truck frame staggered back a step before falling to the ground, clutching at his chest.

“Slag!” Bluestreak said, leaping to Wideload’s side. He pulled the truck’s hand away from his chest to see a jagged hole below the mech’s collar fairing. Energon pulsed out of the hole regularly.

Bluestreak knew from his field repair training what that probably meant, but he still yanked his data cord free from his wrist and jacked it into Wideload’s medical port. He called up diagnostics, and his spark sank as his suspicions were confirmed. For this type of injury, the only thing his training had said was “get the patient to a medic as soon as possible.”

Bluestreak opened a comm channel. ::Artillary to ops, I need a medic ASAP!:: Bluestreak listened to the comm channel intently, but all he heard were whispering comm ghosts and faint squeals of feedback. The Decepticons had set up a jammer. Nothing was getting through. He was on his own.

Wideload groaned, and Bluestreak grimaced at the data images of pain he got through the connection. He threw up what few pain blockers he could, then pulled his data cord free and patted Wideload on the shoulder. “Your fuel pump is hit,” Bluestreak said, pulling his patch kit from his subspace. With shaking hands, he pulled a patch out of the kit and slapped it over the hole. It wouldn’t do a slagging thing, but Bluestreak didn’t know what else to do. He let his hand rest on top of the patch as he looked into Wideload’s optics. “Stay still. Try to lower the RPMs of your pump. I’ll get you to a medic as soon as I can.”

Without a word, Wideload nodded, his face a mask of pain.

Bluestreak peeked out from their hiding place again, and saw that the combiner was still scrabbling and pulling at the cliff face. Faintly, he could hear gunshots and shouting voices. But if the shots were hitting the combiner, they weren’t even slowing him down.

There were three artillery specialists in the Autobot forces that Bluestreak knew about: him, Wideload, and Downshift, who he’d seen fall in the first few chaotic minutes of the fight.

Bluestreak narrowed his optics in thought. Comms were jammed, so he couldn’t ask for permission to use his missiles. Just last month, they were advised that due to energon shortages, they should only be using missiles when ordered, or when absolutely necessary.

Bluestreak decided this was one of those circumstances when it was absolutely necessary.

He angled the missiles on his shoulders upwards as he brought his targeting system online. In a moment, he calculated distance, wind speed, vectors, optimal thrust and sent that information to his launch systems. He compared his calculations to the data from his targeting system, adjusted his aim slightly, and released the safeties.

He fired.

His missiles flew true and slammed into the back of the combiner, one in its lower back and the other between its shoulders. In a blaze of flame and shrapnel, the combiner separated at each limb, and the chunks fell to the ground in a shower of debris.

Bluestreak had known that firing his missiles would paint a target on his location to any of the Decepticons watching. So he was not surprised when, a moment later, his sensor suite warned him of incoming missiles as the Decepticons on the ridge returned fire. He turned to run, his transformation cog spinning up as he took a step, then a second...

And then the world around him erupted in a roar of sound and light, before disintegrating into darkness.

...

_Initiating reboot._

Bluestreak became aware of someone gently prodding at his systems, encouraging him back online. Before his optics even powered on, his HUD was scrolling a lengthy report of damage to his frame and secondary systems.

Everything hurt.

“Ops! I need a medic over here!” The shout was close, and probably came from whoever was plugged into his medical port.

He heard a whining buzz, and realized it was his ventilation systems. It sounded like at least one of his fans had become unseated from its mount. He pulled in a deep vent of air, and wheezed when it was filled with dust.

“Come on, Blue... Come on back. That’s it.” The steady voice was familiar. When his optics finally came online, Bluestreak squinted up at the fuzzy shape hovering over him as he remembered how to focus.

“Hey, Hound,” Bluestreak croaked once the shape resolved into a familiar face.

Hound’s smile was relieved, and his optics brightened. “Hey there, Blue,” he said. He unplugged his data cable from Bluestreak’s neck port. “Just stay still. You’re pretty banged up. I’ve got a medic on the way.”

“Sure,” Bluestreak said, not really feeling like he had the energy to move even if he wanted to. He blinked up at Hound. “The combiner... Did my missiles really take it down?”

Hound’s optics widened. “Those were your missiles?” he asked. When Bluestreak nodded, Hound patted him on the shoulder. “Yes! Looks like you managed to find the weak spots; command will be interested in where exactly your missiles hit.” He grabbed at Bluestreak’s hand. “You saved us, you know... All of us that were in that small canyon. Taking down that combiner turned the tide in our favour. We were able to rout the ‘Cons. I don’t think any of them got away.”

“Good. I’m glad it worked,” Bluestreak said. He closed his optics for a moment as his diagnostics finished prioritizing his damage: dislocated hip, wrenched sensor wing, punctured shoulder, ruptured hydraulic line in his knee... Suddenly his optics flew open again and he lifted his helm, flinching at the pain his motion caused. “Wideload! You have to find him. He was with me when –“

He stopped when Hound shook his helm sadly. “I found him first,” he said. “He’s gone.”

“Slag.” Bluestreak sagged back to the ground again, and he stared up at the sky. The sun was setting, and the sky had become a violent shade of orange. “How many did we lose?” he asked quietly as he looked up at the clouds.

Hound shrugged and looked around. “A lot,” he said. “We’re still triaging.” He lifted a hand, gesturing to someone who Bluestreak couldn’t see, then looked back down at him. “I’m really glad you made it, though,” he added, giving Bluestreak’s shoulder another pat before standing up as a medic arrived. “I’m gonna keep looking for other survivors.”

“I’m glad you made it, too,” Bluestreak said. He tipped his helm to the side to allow the medic to plug into his medical port, but he grabbed at Hound’s ankle before the green mech could step away. “Hound, wait. Look at the clouds.”

“What?” Hound glanced up and made a surprised sound. “Whoa. Nice call, Blue. Looks like we’ve got a rust storm brewing right over us.”

At Hound’s words, the medic also looked up. “Great,” the medic said. “Just what we need with all these wounded.”

“I’ll let the Sergeant know so we can get shelters set up,” Hound said. He smiled down at Bluestreak again. “You saved us twice today.” Then he transformed and roared off in a cloud of dust.

* * *

> _Dear Prowl,_
> 
> _I got your letter yesterday! I love it when you write back so quickly, since it gives me something to do. I’m also pretty sure that you must be really busy, so I appreciate you taking the time to write me so often._
> 
> _Also, thank you so much for the packs of rust sticks! I hope you don’t mind that I shared them all around with the rest of my unit. Everyone could use a treat right now, and they all really liked them. They all said to tell you thanks._
> 
> _Congratulations on the promotion! That’s huge news! Second in command of all the Autobots is a huge honour that you definitely deserve. I hope that Optimus Prime is as good of a boss as you thought he might be. I mean, I’m sure he is, being a Prime and all. I’m sure you’ll make a great second in command._
> 
> _Speaking of promotions, Sergeant Chromia said that I got denied for another promotion. This is the fourth one that I’ve been turned down for. I don’t understand why I keep getting overlooked! Everyone in my unit said that I deserve to be ranked higher than Private... Even Chromia said that there’s no reason for me to be still ranked so low after twelve years in the Autobots. She said that the few bad marks on my record shouldn’t be enough to keep me from getting promoted at least to Corporal, especially with all the decorations I’ve received._
> 
> _I hate to ask this, but now that you’ve got the Prime’s audial, do you think you could look into why I’m not getting promotions? If you have time, of course. I’d really appreciate it. If you don’t have time, I understand._
> 
> _Things are going all right here, although I’m sure you get the scouting reports. You probably know more about what we’ve been getting up to than I do. We got some new members in our unit a few weeks ago, and they’ve been fitting in fine. They’re Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. I’m sure you remember them. I promise that we won’t get up to any trouble. Not that you’d hear of, anyway._
> 
> _(It’s a joke! I’m kidding!)_
> 
> _Anyway, Sideswipe has a jetpack, which is the coolest thing ever! I had no idea that a grounder could learn to fly on their own! I’ve always wanted to fly, so I asked if he could make me one of my own. I guess it took him a long time to scrounge for the parts for his jetpack, but we’re going to work on mine together. Maybe I’ll be flying on my own soon! How awesome would that be?_
> 
> _Also... I mentioned to Trailbreaker how much I’d like to fly, and he said that our division is short on pilots. So I’ve been thinking about getting my pilot certificate, but that would mean going back to Iacon for training. I don’t know if I want to leave the unit for that long. Do you know if there’s any way I can do the knowledge training out here, and then... I don’t know, apprentice with one of our pilots here? I know that’s not how it’s usually done, but since Autobot forces seem to be getting stretched pretty thin I thought that -_

[[Blue, what are you doing?]]

Bluestreak turned away from his data pad and looked over at Hound. The green mech’s optics were still closed, but Bluestreak could feel through the hardline connection that he was online. He’d been so engrossed in his writing that he hadn’t noticed Hound’s presence in his processor growing brighter as he woke.

He knew that staying connected overnight wasn’t considered normal; most mechs liked to be alone in their own processors when recharging. But over the years, after they’d begun casually interfacing, Bluestreak discovered that Hound had trouble recharging, especially after a battle. Having Bluestreak’s processor paired with his, especially after they’d blown out their charge in a most satisfying way, helped Hound fall into recharge and stay there. “I like feeling you puttering around on the other end of the connection,” Hound had told him after finally admitting to his desire for that connection to linger. “It’s like having white noise, drowning out all those thoughts that keep me awake.”

So Bluestreak had grown used to recharging hooked hip-to-hip with his friend. He’d become so used to it that he occasionally forgot that they were connected at all.

Hound sent him another ping over the connection. [[You didn’t have another nightmare, did you?]]

[[No. I didn't. I’m so sorry, pup. I didn’t think to unplug before starting on my letter to Prowl.]] Bluestreak moved to pull his plugs free of Hound’s hip connector, but his partner grabbed his wrist before he could touch their cables.

[[Leave it. Please. I don’t mind, and I kind of needed it after today.]] Hound’s optics came online, lighting their recharge pads with a dim blue glow. [[You’re just thinking **really** loud. Maybe you could work on your letter in the morning?]] Hound brought Bluestreak’s hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips onto the backs of his knuckles.

Bluestreak laughed quietly, putting his data pad into his subspace and rolling onto his side. [[All right. I’m sorry I woke you up.]] He smiled, nuzzling his face into the crook of Hound’s neck, and planted a kiss on one of the cords he found there. His smile widened when Hound’s vents hissed, blowing warm air across his chevron and the planes of his helm. [[Or, since you’re awake now, maybe we could go another round?]]

Even if Bluestreak had missed the trickle of amusement and interest that came over the hardline connection, Hound’s throaty chuckle would have been answer enough for him. Hound cradled Bluestreak’s helm in one hand, and firmly pulled their frames together with his other arm. Then he kissed Bluestreak, his touch soft and gentle. Bluestreak hummed appreciatively.

“Could you two keep it down? Some of us have watch duty in an hour,” muttered a voice behind Hound’s shoulder.

“Or if you’re gonna ‘face again, at least go and do it behind one of the trailers,” said a voice behind Bluestreak.

“Or invite us to join in this time,” said a third voice from across the circle of mechs recharging around the unit’s generator.

The mortification that shot through their connection from Hound almost made Bluestreak bark out loud with laughter. Fortunately he was able to mute his vocalizer before he could wake the rest of the recharging mechs. “Sorry, everyone,” he whispered, and pulled back from Hound so that only their hands were touching, but close enough that their cables could still reach.

[[I didn’t think we were that loud.]] Hound’s embarrassment seeped through the hardline.

[[We weren’t.]] Bluestreak sent his memory from just a few hours before to Hound, carefully stripping off all of the feelings of arousal and leaving only the audio. [[Besides, I know I heard a couple of others going at it at the same time we were. Everyone had a lot of charge to burn off tonight after the fighting we saw.]] He brushed his thumbs over the backs of Hound’s hands. [[And others have been way louder than us before. I think they just enjoy teasing you.]]

Hound huffed quietly, but smiled. Then he closed his optics. [[They definitely enjoy teasing.]] His hands tightened around Bluestreak’s for a moment before he relaxed. [[But next time let’s find someplace away from the generator. That way they can’t tease us.]]

[[You got it, pup.]] Bluestreak looked at Hound for another moment, taking in the square lines of his face and the blunt slabs of his nasal ridge and chin. He may not have been attractive in a conventional sense, but to Bluestreak he looked like friendship and affection and care. Then Bluestreak closed his optics and let himself be lulled by the quiet hum of Hound’s processor sinking back into an idle state.

* * *

“Did you heard that the – what are they calling themselves now - the Protectobots left yesterday?” Hound asked.

“Yup,” Bluestreak replied. His head was pillowed in his hands, and his optics tracked a satellite above them. There wasn’t any point in asking whether it was one of theirs; all of the satellites belonged to the Decepticons now. “Do you know where they got deployed to?”

“Nope.”

Technically, they weren’t supposed to be on top of the shuttle, but it was the only place they could go to be alone for a little while. And besides, Wheeljack said that no one was going to be doing any maintenance on this shuttle tonight, and all shuttles were currently grounded to save energon. So they figured they weren’t hurting anything by stretching out on the shuttle’s roof and looking up at the stars.

The camp’s population had boomed over the past week as High Command consolidated their forces. Prowl said that it was a little risky, since now the Decepticons could stage an all-out assault and wipe out almost the entire Autobot resistance. But Iacon and the surrounding territory was still relatively safe for Autobots, and they needed all the help they could get to ready the Ark for launch.

That... And the Decepticons had gone silent. Normally a lull in the fighting would have been welcomed. But instead of feeling restful, Bluestreak thought the silence was ominous. Megatron was obviously planning something big.

“I still think it’s a little weird, volunteering to become a combiner team like that,” Bluestreak said. “I mean, I would never give permission for my frame or my spark to get modified like they did. Messing with your spark is messing with who you are. They’re all bound together now, forever.” He shuddered just thinking about it.

“I heard the Prime himself asked them to consider it,” Hound said. He crossed one of his legs over a bent knee, and bounced his pede idly as he lay on his back looking up at the sky. “It went really well for the Aerialbots, so it’s not like this was the first time the Autobots were successful in creating a combiner team.”

“I guess,” Bluestreak said, letting his doubt show in his voice. He thought back to the soft-spoken medic he’d known back in basic training, and tried to picture First Aid working in a team with the others. “But their personalities are all so different! First Aid is so quiet, Streetwise is so outgoing, Groove is so laid back, Blades is... Blades. How could it ever work?”

“I knew Blades before the modifications were done,” Hound said. “He’s actually a lot nicer now than he used to be. I think the rest of the team... I don’t know, moderated his personality a bit.”

“Ugh,” Bluestreak said, remembering the unpleasant run-in he’d had with the rotary just the other day. “I can’t imagine what he was like before, then.” He huffed a laugh. “But still... Imagine having your spark bound to Blades for all eternity.”

Hound made an amused noise that made Bluestreak turn his helm to look at him. “I’ve seen the way you look at Blades. Are you **sure** you wouldn’t want to be **bound** to him?” he asked, and nudged Bluestreak with his pede.

“No!” Bluestreak squeaked, instantly getting Hound’s insinuation. “I mean, yes! I mean...” He collected his thoughts as Hound laughed beside him. “I was just **looking**. He’s... I just think he’s attractive, that’s all. I can’t help it if I notice that! But I’m with **you** and **only** you, for serious and exclusive, like we talked about. I would **never**...” He rolled over to his side to make sure Hound didn’t look upset. But the green mech was grinning at him. “And you’re teasing me,” he said with a huff.

“I am.” Hound accepted the kiss Bluestreak gave him, then waited as Bluestreak settled on his back again. “Besides, I know that you think he’s obnoxious.” He laughed and shook his helm. “But you really have the oddest tastes, Blue. Rotaries and truck frames... Most mechs go for racing frames or something sleek and fast like that, while you seem to like the gangly and kibble-laden, or the boxy and squat. Not that I mind that last one,” he said with another laugh.

Bluestreak grunted. “I like rotaries for how they move, and how their alt modes look. They’re exotic and a real treat for the optics. And truck frames...” He nudged Hound with his own pede. “They’re sturdy, and dependable, and powerful. They make me feel safe when I’m around them.” He smiled at Hound. “I think I got lucky to find you.”

“And I think I’m the lucky one,” Hound said. “You’re a delight to talk to and you’ve got those pretty sensor wings...” He trailed off and they sat in silence for a moment. Then he said, “Listen to us, sounding like a couple on _Dear Lonelysparks_.”

“What’s that?” Bluestreak asked.

“Oh, it was a show that was on before the war, before everything went to Pit,” Hound said. “They did old romance stories and stuff. It was really melodramatic, but I liked watching it to cheer myself up.” His voice suddenly sounded sad. “I’d love to see another episode right now.”

They lapsed back into silence.

Above them, the sky darkened and more stars appeared.

“Did you ever go off planet?” Bluestreak asked. “Before the war?”

“Nah,” Hound said. “Truck frames didn’t get those kinds of jobs. I’ve heard stories, though. Planets covered in ice, moons riddled through with caverns of liquid, organics everywhere...” He sighed wistfully. “I’d love to see it someday.”

Bluestreak turned his helm away from Hound, craning his neck to the side. In the distance, lit by floodlights, was the Ark. Prowl’s words about the ship came back to him, and he turned back to Hound.

“Prowl said we’re losing Cybertron,” Bluestreak said. “That’s why they’re gathering a lot of the army here, so we can all pile into the Ark and leave.” He bounced the leg that was crossed over his knee, and spun his tire idly, contemplating all that leaving Cybertron meant. “So you might get your chance to see another planet after all.”

“Yeah,” Hound said, the note of sadness still in his voice. “I just wish it wasn’t at the cost of losing our home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art for this chapter was done by Sirienthe! Please check out their work on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Sierenthe/status/1164789742598156295), [Tumblr](https://chaoswolf12.tumblr.com/post/187144748513/my-transformers-big-bang-2019-pic-to-go-with), [DeviantArt](https://www.deviantart.com/chaoswolf12/art/Hound-and-Bluestreak-Stargazing-810249440)!


	4. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak and the Autobots adapt to life on Earth, and Bluestreak is given some unexpected information.

If Bluestreak’s smile was any wider, his face would probably have split in two. As it was, the mesh in his cheeks felt strained with the size of his grin.

He turned, admiring his reflection. His wings were large, with smooth, flat plating. He spread them out as wide as he could, reveling in the sheer joy he felt from that simple action. They felt glorious, and they looked even better.

Bluestreak could vaguely remember being fairly happy at the reformat that Teletraan 1 gave him after they were reactivated on Earth. But now, he looked even better than he did before. In fact, he looked **amazing**.

He looked **right**.

The ground under him vibrated, and he suddenly realized that he was standing on the palm of a huge mech – someone the size of a cityformer. The gigantic mech lifted him to the same level as his glowing red optics, and smiled. “Bluestreak,” the huge mech boomed. “How do you feel?”

“I feel great!” Bluestreak said. He flicked his wings, still delighting in the feeling of the air flowing over them, and added, “I can’t remember the last time I felt this comfortable in my own frame.”

“That is good to hear.” The impossibly deep voice reverberated in Bluestreak’s chest. Then the enormous mech frowned, and another hand began reaching towards Bluestreak. “But it looks like there was a mistake. You don’t need those wings.”

“What?” Bluestreak stumbled backwards, but found that the hand was closing on him. As the giant fingers of the hand grew closer and closer, Bluestreak held up his own hands and said, “No, wait! I **do** need them!”

“No. I will fix this and take them away.” An enormous thumb and finger reached towards him as if to catch him between them.

“Stop!” Panicking, Bluestreak leapt from the hand and instinctively fired his thrusters, darting away from the huge mech with a spin and a twitch of his ailerons.

But he wasn’t fast enough: the hand flashed out and closed around him. “Hold still, Bluestreak,” the mech said. “This might hurt, but I’m just trying to fix this mistake.” The mech grabbed one of his wings between its fingers...

...and pulled.

Bluestreak screamed in pain as his wing was ripped from its mounting. “Stop! Please don’t do this! **Stop!**” He thrashed, trying to free himself from the huge mech’s grasp. “Please!”

“Just one more,” the huge mech said, turning him and reaching for the other one.

“**No!**” Bluestreak screamed as the giant fingers pinched closed on his remaining wing and pulled.

He landed on the floor with a loud thud. One of his door wings scraped against the side of his berth, sending a jolt of pain into his shoulder.

The tranquilizer program that had been installed in his processor so long ago during basic training launched itself. As its code spooled out, it soothed over the panic that it sensed in him: regulating his ventilations, relaxing tensed cables, shunting looped responses into secondary threads, and pinging him with a location, diagnostic, and time.

He was in the Ark, in his quarters. He was on a planet that the inhabitants called Earth. Aside from some cooling issues and minor frame damage, his systems were running smoothly. It was the middle of the night, and there were four hours before his morning shift started.

He was safe.

“Lights!” Bluestreak gasped, and waited while his optics adjusted to the sudden brightness.

He lay back on the floor and let his cooling fans run, counting to one hundred like he’d practiced with Rung after his tranquilizer program had been installed. He wished that Hound was back from his patrol duty, since Hound always knew the right things to do and to say after Bluestreak woke from recharge in the night, panicking and flailing.

He pinged Hound on a short-range frequency, hoping that maybe his friend had returned early. He waited a full minute before conceding that Hound wasn’t back in range yet.

He was just glad that their other roommates were also away. Trailbreaker had gone out on patrol with Hound, while Brawn was still in medbay after the last fight with the Decepticons. His other roommates knew he had bad nightmares occasionally, but they just assumed (like everyone else) that he was still traumatized by whatever happened in Praxus.

Bluestreak cycled his optics at the orange ceiling. Maybe he **was** still traumatized, but only his spark remembered exactly what he was traumatized about. Maybe Smokescreen had been right, way back in their first session in the Iacon hospital. Maybe his spark really **did** remember his frame being crushed and his wings being ripped off. Maybe that really **was** the cause of his nightmares.

The tranquilizer program sent a message to his HUD, letting him know that it had run its course. He did feel better, with his fans running at a normal speed and his spark no longer feeling as though it was about to burst free of its casing. But a resignation settled over him. He knew that Smokescreen would get a message telling him that Bluestreak’s tranquilizer program had been triggered again, and that meant that Bluestreak would have another session with him to discuss it in a day or two.

Ugh. Bluestreak didn’t know what he was going to say this time. It was the same sort of nightmare every single time: either being trapped under rubble, or having his wings ripped off of his frame. How many times could they discuss how much an event he couldn’t even remember bothered him?

He wondered if he could figure out a way to hack the coding in the tranquilizer program so that it would stop sending notices to Medical when it launched. Surely he couldn’t get into trouble for hacking his own brain.

An image of Ratchet flashed across his vision, and Bluestreak winced. Ok, maybe he **could** get into trouble for hacking his brain.

With a groan, Bluestreak slowly rolled over, climbed to his pedes, and consulted his chronometer. He had three and a half hours until his shift started. There was no way he was going back to recharge now, not after that nightmare. And while Prowl was probably up this early (or, more likely, still up from the previous day), Bluestreak didn’t really want to bother his friend with his problems. The only thing he could think to do at this hour was to go down to the mess hall, collect his daily ration, and maybe read one of the nature magazines that Hound had given him on a datapad.

He grabbed a pad at random and left his quarters.

The halls of the Ark were almost silent, although he could still hear the whirs as Red Alert’s cameras tracked his progress to the mess hall. Bluestreak could have done with a little bit of noise to get his processor off of the dark places it began wandering. Maybe he should have grabbed one of the datapads with music that Blaster and Jazz had collected from the humans, instead of something to read. He flared and resettled his plating, trying to get it to feel comfortable, but he knew that was likely a losing battle after having one of his nightmares. His plating and frame wouldn’t feel right for the better part of the day, now.

He scrubbed at his face as he turned down the corridor towards the mess hall. Another dream about flying. Another nightmare about losing his wings. If there was symbolism in the dreams, it was lost on him.

It had taken over a thousand years, but Bluestreak had finally felt comfortable in his frame before they came to Earth. Bluestreak had figured out what was wrong with his sensor wings: they were too stubby and too small. But he wasn’t able to work out how making the changes he wanted to see in the mirror would work with his alt mode; all of his body paneling would need to be redesigned and redone. Making all of those changes seemed impractical, especially since he was always on the move with his unit. And besides, resources had become scarce in the later days of the war on Cybertron. Making huge changes to a mech’s armor and plating was expensive and time consuming, and the Autobots lacked the resources to do it. Making those changes for what were essentially cosmetic reasons seemed impossible.

When he explained the problem to Hound, the green mech had looked at Bluestreak’s sensor wings thoughtfully. A few days later, Hound and Sunstreaker showed Bluestreak how paint could be used to give the illusion that his wings were broader and larger. Hound explained that some truck frames and tankformers used similar paint applications to disguise their size and shape in the field. The illusion wasn’t perfect, of course, but it was good enough that Bluestreak could look at himself in the mirror without feeling that odd sense of anxiety and wrongness that had plagued him for so long.

Then they boarded the Ark... And crashed on Earth... And were brought back online four million years later.

The reformat that Bluestreak received from Teletraan 1 was a wonder. Sensor wings became door wings. Plasteel sensor covers became fragile glass. The bulbous corners of his Cybertronian alt mode were replaced by smooth lines and contoured surfaces and shiny chrome of a vehicle the humans called a Datsun. The doors of his vehicle mode were much longer than his original sensor wings had been, and their shape was almost perfect.

It was amazing.

Bluestreak had spent almost as long as Sunstreaker did admiring his new form in the washrack mirror. And while some of the Autobots disliked the exotic look that the human vehicles gave them, Bluestreak loved his updated reflection.

It was only when he had one of his nightmares that he thought about his frame, now.

The mess hall was empty, as Bluestreak expected. He stood at the energon dispenser, leaning on the counter heavily while waiting for his ration to dispense. When the dispenser finally beeped to indicate his cube was full, he picked it up and turned to find a seat where he could read his datapad.

He gasped, almost dropping the cube, when he saw a mech standing less than a meter away from him. “Aaah!”

“Hey there, Blue,” Jazz said with a grin, leaning on the counter casually as if he’d been there for hours.

Bluestreak clapped his hand onto his chest. His spark had just calmed down from his nightmare earlier, but it was now spinning fast once more. “Primus, Jazz. You are unnaturally quiet.”

“Just tricks of the trade, my mech,” the spy said. “But sorry ‘bout that... I honestly didn’t mean to startle ya.” Jazz paused. “Yer up early.”

Bluestreak stepped away from the counter and from Jazz, still unnerved that the other mech had gotten so close without him noticing. “Yeah. Just getting some reading done before my shift,” he said as brightly as he could, waving the datapad.

Jazz’s visor was locked on Bluestreak’s optics, and his smile faded. “Did ya have a nightmare?” he asked quietly.

Frag. Did everyone know about his nightmares? Then again, Jazz seemed to know just about everything that went on in the Ark. Bluestreak let his door wings droop a bit. “Is it that obvious?” he asked, letting his fatigue creep back into his voice.

Jazz shook his helm. “Nah,” he said. He punched a few buttons on the energon dispenser, then turned back to Bluestreak. “But nightmares are a fact of life for Special Ops mechs. Some of my agents have ‘em real bad.” He gestured around his visor vaguely. “There’s a look a mech gets around the optics when they’ve had a bad one. You’ve got that look right now.”

“Oh.” Bluestreak rubbed his optics, wondering if there was a way to mask whatever Jazz had seen in him, then shrugged. “Yeah. I had a nightmare. All my roommates are away, and everyone else is on duty or recharging. I figured I’d just come in here and read for a bit until it was time for my shift.”

The energon dispenser beeped, and Jazz pulled a cube from it before requesting another cube. “Did ya want to talk about it?” Jazz asked. “Or just have someone to talk to so yer not alone?” He gestured at the dispenser. “I was gonna take a ration to Prowl, but I can come back if ya want.” When Bluestreak started to shake his helm, Jazz added, “It don’t have to be a serious talk. We can just chat about music or shows or anything else ya like.”

Bluestreak smiled. “I appreciate the gesture,” he said. “I really do. But I’ll be all right. It’s just a few hours until my shift starts, and night shift is going to be coming back pretty soon. Mechs will be coming in here for fuel and...” Bluestreak shrugged and shook his helm. “I’ll be all right. But thank you.”

Jazz grabbed the second cube from the dispenser. “All right. I’ll leave ya to it, then.” He gave Bluestreak another considering look. “But I’ll just be in Prowl’s office. If ya change yer mind, just give me a comm.”

“I will. And thanks again.” Bluestreak watched as Jazz left the mess hall. He was glad that Prowl seemed to have started some kind of relationship with the Polyhexian. Even though it had been centuries on Cybertron (and millennia in stasis) since Bluestreak had explained that he didn’t feel anything except friendship for Prowl, he still caught Prowl watching him with a strange expression now and then. Hopefully, now that Prowl had picked up with Jazz, those strange looks would stop.

With a sigh, Bluestreak turned and sat at a table, facing the door of the room. He peeled open his cube and sipped from it before flicking the datapad on.

Bluestreak knew that the article should have been interesting. It was about migratory birds, something that Hound had been enthusing about just a few weeks ago. But instead, Bluestreak’s processor kept drifting to the dream he’d had, and how good it had felt to spread his wings. The pictures of the flying creatures in the article did nothing to help.

After several attempts at reading the same paragraph and not remembering what it said, Bluestreak set down the datapad and rubbed his optics again. He reflexively pinged Hound’s frequency once more, not expecting to hear anything back.

When his ping was returned and was followed by a comm request, Bluestreak’s spark leapt. ::Hound! You’re back in range!::

::Yup. We’re just coming up the road to the Ark now.:: Even over the comm, Hound’s voice sounded tired, but it had the same cheerful lilt it always did. ::What’s up? I figured you’d still be in recharge.::

Bluestreak couldn’t keep the sense of defeat out of his voice. ::I had another nightmare.::

::Oh, no. I wish I’d been there for you.:: The distress in Hound’s voice was plain.

::It’s not your fault. You were out on patrol. But... I’d like to see you, before my shift.:: Bluestreak perched on the edge of his chair, staring at the door of the mess hall as if Hound was about to walk through it. ::Just to say hi, and take my mind off of it. To talk about anything and nothing, if that’s all right.::

::Absolutely.:: Hound’s voice was firm. ::We’ll be back at the Ark in less than ten minutes, and I’ve already got my report prepared to be filed. So no more than twenty minutes. Where can I find you?::

::The mess hall. I’ll get your ration ready for you.:: Bluestreak was already rising to punch in Hound’s code. ::And thanks. I know you usually like to get washed up before tromping through the Ark.::

::You’re way more important to me than a shower. I’ll see you soon, Blue. Hound out.::

Bluestreak collected Hound’s ration from the dispenser and returned to his table. He’d been sitting there for almost five minutes before he realized that the tension in his wings had faded.

* * *

Of course it was a trap. They should have known it was a trap. And if they’d followed protocol (like Prowl had drilled into him over and over) and called it in before investigating the strange signal they’d discovered, Bluestreak and Sunstreaker probably would have been warned against checking it out.

On the plus side, the Decepticons were more likely to take Autobots prisoner than kill them outright, these days. 

On the minus side, Bluestreak now knew what the inside of the Decepticon brig/torture palace looked like.

Bluestreak’s processor was still swimming from the cheap shot he’d received from Drag Strip, but he jerked back to full awareness when he felt his wrists being lifted over his helm and locked into restraints. He guessed he was shorter than their usual captives, since the tips of his pedes barely touched the floor of the brig.

Turning his helm to the left, he saw that Sunstreaker was being strung up in the same way. His pedes were also just barely touching the floor; maybe the restraints were adjustable? Bluestreak shook his helm and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Right. The inhibitor they’d slapped on his neck had disabled his vocalizer along with his comms.

Sunstreaker glared at Brawl as the tankformer checked his restraints. Then he glanced over at Bluestreak. Sunstreaker’s fingers formed a quick sign: _You ok?_

Bluestreak nodded. He was banged up, but otherwise his diagnostics were coming up green.

He just hoped they stayed that way.

Bluestreak had never been captured before. On Cybertron, it was rare for an Autobot to survive being captured by the Decepticons. Most often, the unlucky captives were tortured for information before being tossed to the troops as playthings. Allowing prisoners to be beaten to death by the troops for fun was apparently cheaper than spending the energon to execute them.

But on Earth, the rules had changed. Both sides had limited numbers, and limited resources. While the Decepticons outnumbered the Autobots, the Autobots had the humans on their side. Deaths occasionally still happened during battle, but captives were usually traded for concessions from the other side. And while Optimus Prime was adamant that they not use torture on any of their prisoners, the Decepticons had no such compunctions.

Bluestreak looked at the Decepticon guards and thought back to what Sunstreaker had said before the ‘Cons had trussed them into stasis cuffs and applied the inhibitors. “Don’t let them get to you,” Sunstreaker had hissed as the Stunticons bickered over who was going to sit on Sunstreaker and who was going to put the cuffs on him. “We both got our distress calls off before they jammed us. The Autobots will come for us. Just tell them what they want… They’ll find it out anyway. And don’t give up. Help **will** be coming!”

Maybe they wouldn’t be tortured. Maybe they’d just be questioned. Bluestreak held onto that hope as the Decepticons slapped the cuffs on him, silenced him, and threw both of them into the back of Motormaster’s trailer.

He’d heard what happened to Autobots who the Decepticons decided to torture. It wasn’t uncommon for a mech to spend a few weeks in the medical bay recovering from their ordeal. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had both spent time in the Decepticon brig. Neither of them had wanted to talk about it much, although Sideswipe made jokes about their experience that only seemed to highlight how bad it had been. Hound had been captured once, and still had nightmares about the experience from time to time. And one time, Cliffjumper had literally been sent back to the Autobot base one part at a time, with his helm and torso being the last parts delivered.

In the Decepticon brig, Brawl paced back and forth between them, glaring at them both in turn. He nudged Sunstreaker with the butt of his rifle. “You, we’ve seen,” he said, his voice deep and gruff. Then he turned to Bluestreak. “But you... You’re new.” He leered at Bluestreak. “’Tex is gonna have a lot of fun with you.”

Bluestreak’s ventilations stalled and his optics widened. ‘Tex? As in **Vortex**?! He looked over at Sunstreaker as the frontliner started thrashing in his restraints, his engine revving hard. Sunstreaker’s flailing only fed into Bluestreak’s growing fear.

Bluestreak was very familiar with all of the names of the Decepticon interrogators on Earth, and none of them were gentle. Soundwave probed your processor directly, looking for memories to exploit and information that you didn’t even know you had. Barricade was a master at hacking, stripping firewalls and implanting viruses that slept so deeply in a mech’s processor that it took weeks to root them out, and months to make sure you were clean. But Vortex...

Vortex specialized in pain.

It was Vortex who had disassembled Cliffjumper part by part. “I’m helping you escape, Cliff,” he’d told the red minibot as he’d removed his forearm, slicing open hydraulics and joint bindings slowly. “I’m helping you escape one little part at a time.”

The red minibot had been freed over a year before, but he still went into a panic if he saw a surgical scalpel.

“Stop playing with my new toy.” Bluestreak’s helm jerked up as the rotary came into the brig. Vortex stopped in the doorway, looking at Bluestreak with an admiring gaze. “This is a rare opportunity for me and I don’t want anything to ruin it.”

Bluestreak had seen Vortex on the battlefield, usually combined as Bruticus’s left arm, but he’d also seen him in the air. While Bluestreak liked what the Earth reformat had done to his own frame, it had done wondrous things for Vortex. The helicopter was now all sleek lines and dangerous angles in the air, and in root mode he had broad shoulders, a thin waist, and squared hips. His rotor blades spread out from his shoulders in a v-shape, drawing Bluestreak’s optics down to the mech’s red visor and stern faceplate.

Bluestreak shook his helm. Maybe his processor was still addled from that hit he’d taken. This wasn’t the time to get all besotted with a rotary.

With a flick of his fingers, Vortex gestured at Sunstreaker. “Turn off his inhibitor. I want to hear why this grounder’s ruining his paint with all his thrashing.” As Brawl reached for Sunstreaker’s inhibitor, Vortex asked, “So what’s got you all worked up, sweetspark?” 

“Leave him alone!” Sunstreaker roared as soon as his inhibitor was turned off.

Vortex huffed a laugh and turned to Bluestreak. “Who, this prize? The Autobots’ star sniper?” He trailed a finger along one of Bluestreak’s door wings as he walked up to him, causing them to tremble uncontrollably. Vortex laughed, flicked off the inhibitor, and laughed again as Bluestreak whimpered immediately. “I’ve got plans for you,” he purred, the timbre of his voice somehow going even lower, causing heat to pool low in Bluestreak’s abdomen.

Bluestreak shivered.

“He doesn’t know anything!” Sunstreaker yelled. He yanked on his restraints once more. “He’s just a private. He’s barely got any security clearance. I’m the one you want to interrogate.”

Vortex sniggered at that. “Who said anything about interrogation?” he asked. “I just want to play.” The rotary slid a finger down Bluestreak’s cheek and hooked it under his chinguard to tip Bluestreak’s helm upwards. “Hmm. What should I do first? Slice open your pretty wings, or ruin your data ports?” He leaned closer, his vents blowing warm air over Bluestreak’s plating. “What do you think... Bluestreak, is it?”

Bluestreak’s fingers twitched in their bindings, wanting to stroke down the edges of the rotary’s blades and – _slag!_ He turned his helm away, hoping that if he wasn’t looking at Vortex he could derail this fragged up train of thought. This was a ‘Con! This was the sick glitch who’d taken Cliffjumper apart bit by bit! This mech’s face was the one that haunted Hound’s nightmares, making him wake in the night, crying out and thrashing! This was one of the most feared Decepticon interrogators! So why couldn’t Bluestreak rip his optics off of the mech’s visor and blades and why was he wondering how it would feel to run his glossa down their length and -

“I asked you a question.” Vortex slid sideways a step so that he filled Bluestreak’s field of view again. His face was only half a meter away from Bluestreak’s, and Bluestreak could see just a hint of the mech’s optics behind his visor. It was tantalizing. “I asked what you think.”

Before Bluestreak could formulate a coherent answer, he heard his vocalizer say, “I think you look delicious.”

For a moment, everything stopped. In that moment, Bluestreak thought his processor had crashed, because the brig went dead silent. Then suddenly his helm was tipped upwards again as Vortex grabbed his chinguard and brought his face just centimeters from Bluestreak’s. “**Who told you to say that?**” the rotary yelled into his face.

It felt as though his spark had stopped. Why **had** he said that? Was he **trying** to get himself disassembled? “I- I- No one! No one told me to say that. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t think. I-” Bluestreak’s babble of words was cut off as Vortex shoved him backwards in the restraints, and he squawked in pain as his shoulders were wrenched in their sockets.

“**Why** did you say that?” Vortex growled. He still stood in front of Bluestreak, his visor blazing. One hand wrapped around Bluestreak’s neck while his other was balled into a fist at his side.

Bluestreak gaped at Vortex, trying to find the words. No, not trying to find the words: he realized that he **knew** why he’d said that. He’d said it because Vortex **was** gorgeous, a sleek magical machine that Bluestreak could have looked at all day, and would have loved to touch. But he couldn’t just say that to him, and what other explanation could he give Vortex that he would accept?

His processor raced, trying to find an answer that wouldn’t get him killed – or worse – and he glanced away from Vortex again. For some reason every time he looked at the rotary, his spark spun and his door wings trembled, just shy of fluttering, and he wanted to touch him so badly, and none of this made any sense at all, and...

That’s when he felt the tranquilizer program kick in.

The program had detected a processor loop beginning, just like when Bluestreak felt trapped in a small place or when a nightmare blurred the lines between hallucination and reality. The program slowed his ventilations, let him relax into his restraints, sent his fear and confusion at his emotional responses into secondary threads, and pinged him with his location, diagnostic and time.

With his processor clear of the clutter and noise, he was able to think clearly. Of course his reaction to Vortex made sense. The mech was **delicious** to look at, even if he was dangerous.

Perhaps that was part of the appeal.

Bluestreak raised his helm and looked Vortex directly in the visor. “I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said. One part of his processor gibbered at him, trying to draw the words back, but the tranquilizer program tamped that response down as being unhelpful to the current situation. What remained was reason and honesty as his spark saw it. “Offending you really wasn’t my intent. I was just... I was just startled by how incredibly attractive you are.” When Vortex continued to stare at him, Bluestreak shrugged as well as he could with his hands bound over his helm. “What? It’s true. You are.”

“Blue, what are you **doing**?” Sunstreaker hissed.

Vortex glanced at Sunstreaker, then back to Bluestreak. Behind the rotary’s visor, Bluestreak could see his optics narrow. “Who **are** you?” he asked, his voice low and deadly.

Bluestreak’s certainty faltered, doubt creeping into his processor. The interrogator had said his name earlier, so he knew who he was. Was this some kind of mental game? Then the tranquilizer program smoothed over that misgiving as it was designed to do, and let his training kick in. The interrogator asked him a question; it was wise to answer it as best he could. Bluestreak straightened in his restraints as much as they allowed, and said, “I am Private Bluestreak of Praxus, Autobot High Command, based in Outpost Earth.”

“Praxus.” Now it was Vortex’s turn to hesitate as he rolled the name of the city-state around his mouth like a fine blend of high-grade. He lifted his free hand and traced the upper edge of Bluestreak’s door wing again thoughtfully, only lifting his finger away when Bluestreak’s wing trembled under his touch. “Praxus.” Then, with a sudden movement, Vortex dropped Bluestreak’s chin and whirled on Brawl. “I’m taking him to my lab. Get me some cuffs,” he barked.

Brawl gaped at Vortex for a moment before shaking his helm. “You shouldn’t do this, ‘Tex. Lord Megatron said that we were only supposed to –”

With a roar of his engine, Vortex shoved Brawl to the side and grabbed a set of cuffs off the wall. “I don’t **care** what Megatron said. I’m taking him to my lab.” He pressed a button on the wall and Bluestreak felt his bindings release, only to have his hands jerked behind him and cuffed again. Vortex grabbed him by his upper arm and started pulling him from the brig. “Walk or I’ll drag you,” Vortex growled.

“No! Leave him alone!” Sunstreaker yelled, kicking his legs out futilely as Vortex led Bluestreak past him. When Vortex ignored him, Sunstreaker yelled, “Blue! Remember what I said! They’ll come for us! Don’t give up!”

“If you kill him, Megatron’s gonna be seriously fragged off at you!” Brawl shouted as they left the brig. “You know what he said after that red one you took apart!”

Killed? Red one? Cliffjumper! Bluestreak leaned back, pulling against Vortex’s insistent tugging on his arm. “Wait!” he said. “I honestly don’t know anything. I swear I’ll tell you everything I do know. Just please don’t take me apart! Please don’t send me back in a box!” Bluestreak didn’t need to check his processor threads to know that his tranquilizer program had run its course and shut down. It would be hours before it could launch again.

The look that Vortex gave him was unreadable, but when he spoke his voice was more gentle than it had been in the brig. “I’m not going to disassemble you,” he said. “Not now, anyway. Just... Shut up until we get to my lab.”

The lab was a few doors down from the brig. The walls were lined with all manner of saws, pries, bars, and surgical tools. A stained table was in the middle of the room, outfitted with restraints designed to hold any size bot, from the size of Bumblebee up to Optimus himself.

The gibbering part of Bluestreak’s processor wondered which of the stains on the table belonged to Cliffjumper, or to Hound. The gibbering part of his processor wondered if Hound would miss him if he died here.

As soon as they entered, Vortex pushed him backwards until Bluestreak sat down hard on the table surface. But instead of pressing him down onto the table and putting him into the restraints, the rotary took a step back and closed the door to the lab. With his back to Bluestreak, Vortex took a deep vent, his turbines spinning as he cycled his air. Finally, after he’d visibly gathered himself, Vortex turned to face Bluestreak and said, “Now. Tell me who you really are.”

“I... I told you already.” Bluestreak stared at Vortex, still wondering if this was some sort of new psychological torture. “I’m Private Bluestreak of Praxus, Autobot High-”

“What is your serial code?” Vortex asked. This voice was strangely calm and quiet.

Bluestreak hesitated. “Why?” he asked warily.

A mech’s serial code was imprinted into their spark signature from the moment it was ignited. Hashes of it were used to create medical overrides, but it could also be used to create complex viruses that dwelled deep inside the spark, disguising the viral code as part of the mech’s own personality matrix. All medics could read a serial code with a scanner, and most mechs could recite their own for emergencies. But Bluestreak was sure that just freely giving his serial code to a Decepticon was a bad idea.

Vortex stayed where he was, but stared at Bluestreak intently. “Because,” he said. Behind his helm, his blades quivered. “I need to know who you are.”

“I’m…” Bluestreak tried to raise his hands in a shrug, but they were still in the cuffs behind his back. He lifted just his shoulders instead, his door wings bobbing behind him. “I **told** you who I am,” Bluestreak said insistently. “Asking me the same question over and over again won’t change the answer.”

Vortex’s engine snarled. He turned and slammed his fist into a comm speaker set in the wall by the door. “Vortex to Hook!”

A moment later the speaker crackled. “Hook here. What do you want? You just got the prisoners... You can’t possibly have damaged them bad enough to need me already.”

“Just bring me your spark scanner,” Vortex said, his tone demanding. “I’m in my lab.”

“Use your own!” Hook snapped back.

“Barricade broke mine last week.”

There was a pause. “Fine. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Then the comm bleeped and went silent.

Vortex had not removed his gaze from Bluestreak the entire time he had been speaking to Hook. He took a few steps towards Bluestreak and then stopped. “Tell me someone put those words in your helm,” Vortex said, his voice almost pleading. “Tell me someone told you to say that to me.”

Bluestreak shook his helm. “What things?” He thought back to what had happened in the brig, and his optics widened. “You mean... About how you look?” When Vortex nodded, he tried to shrug again. “I... Look, I have a thing for rotaries. I always have. It’s nothing about you in particular. I just like how your frames look, all the curves and angles. I get teased about it all the time.” He felt his face flush as his words brought his mind back to the interrogator’s frame, and all the things that his processor wanted to do to it. Oh, slag... If Soundwave was going to have a turn at him later, Bluestreak knew he was going to die from embarrassment instead of energon loss. “Like I said, I’m sorry. I should have kept it to myself. I didn’t meant to –”

As Bluestreak spoke, Vortex’s expression grew more and more pained. Finally he flung his arm out, and interrupted Bluestreak with a shout. “Enough! That’s enough.” He paced back and forth a few steps, his visor locked on the ground, before looking back up at Bluestreak. “Those things you said to me... The way you said it. Only one other mech has ever said those things to me before.”

Bluestreak leaned back slightly, trying to keep his door wings steady. Only one other mech had ever told Vortex how gorgeous he was? That just wasn’t fair, especially with how gorgeous he was. Bluestreak’s spark sank in pity. “Oh. Oh! I’m so sorry. Are you... Are you lonely?” he asked quietly.

“What?” Vortex asked, stopping his pacing for a moment. Then he shook his helm. “No, no,” he muttered. Then he laughed quietly and looked up at the ceiling. “Slag. You get distracted just like him, too.” He turned and walked up to Bluestreak, stopping just short of the Praxian’s knees. “What you called me. You used the word ‘delicious.’ That’s an unusual way to describe someone, don’t you think?”

Frowning, Bluestreak said, “Well, I... I guess it is a little unusual.” He’d **thought** the term a lot, for many different mechs. But he supposed he’d only said it out loud a few times. He’d muttered it to himself the first time he’d seen Springer in action, leaping into the air and transforming into his copter mode in a way that turned Bluestreak’s processor into mud. He’d gasped it at Hound once, right before the green mech had managed to send Bluestreak into a hard reboot with just his hands and glossa.

And he’d said it to Vortex.

Vortex hadn’t looked away from Bluestreak as the Praxian pondered why he’d chosen that particular word. “Only one other mech has ever said that to me. If it was **just** that, I wouldn’t have thought much about it. But your chatter, the way you choose your words, how you look at me, even just the way you hold your wings...” Vortex reached a hand out as if to touch Bluestreak’s door wing again, and Bluestreak instinctively jerked his wing back out of reach. Vortex let his hand fall back to his side. “I need to know that it’s not just a coincidence.”

The door beeped, then slid open. Hook walked into the lab holding a scanner in his hand. He took one look at Bluestreak and scoffed. “You haven’t even started,” Hook said. “Or are you softening him up first?”

Vortex snatched the scanner out of Hook’s hand. “Let me worry about him,” Vortex snarled. “Now get out.”

Hook stiffened, then huffed in an exasperated way. “’Thank you for bringing me a spark scanner right away, Hook’” the medic said in a high-pitched voice. Then his voice dropped back to its regular pitch. “You’re welcome, Vortex.” With one last glare at the copter, he turned and stomped back out of the lab.

As soon as the door slid closed, Vortex locked it and turned the scanner on. “Hold still,” he muttered, and ran the scanner over Bluestreak’s chest armor. Bluestreak had enough time to wonder whether he should have moved or tried to mess up the reading (Would holding his vents cause the scanner to misread his code? **Was** there anything he could do?) before the scanner chimed and Vortex stared at the screen. A moment later, Vortex looked up at Bluestreak, his visor blazing brightly. “It **is** you!” he shouted, and turned the screen to show Bluestreak.

The code on the screen was Bluestreak’s serial code. He blinked at it for a moment, then looked at Vortex. He wondered what sort of game Vortex was playing, and wondered whether he should play along. Was there any point in lying? Finally he shrugged and said, “Yes. That’s my code.”

Vortex shook his helm and looked at the code again, and made a strange, strangled noise. “No. It’s you.” He pointed at Bluestreak. “You. Thunderbolt!”

Bluestreak stared at Vortex. “Sorry? Who?”

Vortex jammed his finger against Bluestreak’s chest. “You are Thunderbolt!”

Hesitantly shaking his helm, Bluestreak said, “No... I’m Bluestreak.”

“This code...” Vortex gestured at the scanner in his hand, then threw it on the table next to Bluestreak. “I know this code – your code - as well as I know my own. It’s Thunderbolt’s code. I know it because I had it engraved on my spark chamber.” He laid his palm against his chest. “And Bolt – you - had **my** code engraved on **yours**.” He pointed at Bluestreak’s chest again.

Bluestreak leaned back, away from Vortex’s hand. “That’s... very interesting,” he said, trying to make sense of what Vortex was trying to do. Were these mind games? Bluestreak thought only Soundwave played those with his prisoners. Maybe they’d been cross-training. “And… And it must have hurt. But I can assure you, there’s nothing engraved on my spark chamber.” _And please don’t make me show you,_ Bluestreak thought desperately. He hadn’t even shown his spark to Hound; he certainly didn’t want to show it to this Decepticon, no matter how attractive Bluestreak thought he was.

But Vortex had stepped away from Bluestreak and started pacing again. “It **did** hurt. We knew it would hurt, but we wanted… We did it right at the beginning of the war. That way, if one of us died, the other would always remember...” Vortex rubbed his face with his hands, then turned to look at Bluestreak. “You were part of a squadron that was sent to Praxus. They said you were shot down by the Civil Defense Corps. After the city fell, they looked for your frame, but...” Vortex hung his helm. “They didn’t find you. Praxus had put up a Pit of a fight. You were gone, but so were lots of other Decepticons. And I couldn’t...” The rotary paused and gestured down at his frame. “I volunteered for the combiner program. I wanted to fill that hole in my spark somehow. But...” He thumped his fist against his chest once before splaying his hand flat against his plating. “My team was never able to replace how I felt about you.”

Bluestreak had scooted as far back on the table as he could, and still leaned away from the pacing interrogator. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I told you. I’m Bluestreak of –”

“No!” Vortex roared. He whirled, his hands out at his sides, fingers curled into claws. “It all fits! Your code! The way you talk and talk. You were in Praxus. The little flutter of your wings when you’re thinking.” Vortex’s voice broke slightly. “The Autobots must have found you. They took you... They put you in a grounder frame. They desecrated you. They turned you into a fragging Autobot!” Vortex’s hands balled into fists. “You were one of the elite seekers! You were a member of the Vosian Guard! We were... We were **together**! Try to remember, Thunderbolt!”

Shaking his helm, Bluestreak looked away from the copter. His processor churned, and he felt it starting into a loop once more. He pulled a vent, trying to count his fan rotations, trying to calm the spin of his spark, trying to do **anything** so that he could think. **_Think!_** Vortex was a master at torture, and torturing the frame wasn’t the only way to break a mech. Sunstreaker’s voice came back to Bluestreak then, exhorting for him to be strong, no matter what Vortex did. “I am **Bluestreak**,” he said as firmly as he could manage.

Suddenly his field of vision was filled with a visored face. “We would go flying, just the two of us,” Vortex said, his tone suddenly more gentle than he had been a moment before. “We would fly as high as we could, then transform and free fall, just to see who would fall the farthest before switching back to alt mode. You always won.” Vortex put his hands on Bluestreak’s shoulders. “You hated fighting. You didn’t want anything to do with the war at first, but eventually you joined up, after Vos was hit by the Autobots.” Behind his visor, his optics roamed Bluestreak’s face searchingly. “You loved puzzles. You were the best hacker I’ve ever seen in my life. You could talk for ages about everything and nothing. You did this thing with your hands that... that...” Vortex gave Bluestreak’s shoulders a little shake. “We were so **good** together, Bolt! You must remember. You have to remember. **Look** at me!” His voice became pleading, static crackling around the edges of his words. “Look! Look with your spark! Tell me what you see! Tell me you **remember** us!”

Bluestreak’s optics darted around Vortex’s face, looking for any sign of deceit. The mech looked sincere, as much as Bluestreak could make of his expression behind his visor and faceplate. But he also remembered Hound telling him about how Vortex had asked him to count the slashes he placed in his tires, then tutting and forcing Hound to start back over again at one when Hound lost track in his haze of lost energon and pain. He remembered the stutter in Sideswipe’s ventilations as he’d tried to laugh off the four days he’d spent in the Decepticon brig at Vortex’s mercy. He remembered seeing Huffer’s usual dour grumpiness turn into shock and despair after he helped bring the box containing Cliffjumper’s helm and torso into the base.

He looked at Vortex, as he was asked to do. What did he see? He saw a rotary frame, one that gave him a thrill when he ran his optics over it. But the mech behind the beauty was also a brutal, vicious monster who had done horrific things to Bluestreak’s friends.

Bluestreak flicked his door wings out and lifted his helm, looking at Vortex evenly. Enunciating each word clearly, he said, “I am Private Bluestreak of Praxus, Autobot High Command, based in Outpost Earth.” Then he slammed his mouth shut and glared at Vortex.

Vortex held his gaze for a moment longer before releasing his shoulders and stepping back. “That’s it, then,” he growled. “They **did** kill you, after all.” The blades over his shoulders trembled before he took a steadying vent. He glared at Bluestreak. “It would have been better for everyone if you’d just stayed dead.”

A few minutes later, Bluestreak stumbled into the brig beside Vortex. Brawl watched as Vortex trussed him back into the overhead restraints before saying, “What’s up, ‘Tex? I thought you were looking forward to breaking someone new.”

Vortex flung the cuffs at Brawl, not even looking as the tankformer fumbled to catch them. “I’m not in the mood anymore,” Vortex muttered and stalked out of the brig.

Sunstreaker had stared at Bluestreak with wide optics as soon as he’d come back into the brig. When Brawl turned to put the cuffs away, Sunstreaker whispered, “Are you all right?” His gaze roamed over Bluestreak’s frame, obviously looking for damage or leaks.

“I’m fine,” Bluestreak said quietly, then looked at the door where Vortex had disappeared. “He didn’t do anything to me. I’m fine.”


	5. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out.

It was no use. After three hours of trying, Bluestreak knew that there was no way he was going to fall into recharge. Not after the day he’d had.

Not after what he’d been told.

He onlined his optics. In their dim glow, he looked at Hound, who was still curled up beside him. Instead of the contented look the green mech usually had when recharging with Bluestreak plugged into his ports, Hound’s face was creased by a small frown. Over the hardline connection, he could feel the soft idle of Hound’s processor ticking through its defrag cycle. He could tell that Hound wasn’t recharging as deeply as he normally did when connected to Bluestreak.

Bluestreak quietly cycled his vents and tried to think as quietly as he could.

The Autobots had made a deal for the return of Bluestreak and Sunstreaker within a day of their capture. Bluestreak wasn’t sure what the Autobots had traded in exchange for their release, but there were two large human-made machines sitting on pallets at the rendezvous point when they arrived. The Decepticons loaded the machines into Astrotrain and left while Ratchet was still running his initial scans of the freed captives.

Sunstreaker had immediately told their rescuers that Vortex had taken Bluestreak into his lab, but that they’d only been gone for about an hour. Bluestreak tried to reassure everyone that he was fine, but no one seemed to believe him... Especially those who’d faced Vortex before.

In the medical bay on board the Ark, Ratchet had frowned and scanned Bluestreak again. “And Vortex didn’t do **anything** to you?” Ratchet’s optics flicked disapprovingly towards Prowl, who was still hovering in the examination room. “If you would prefer to tell me in private, I can make everyone else leave the room,” Ratchet offered.

Bluestreak smiled at Prowl, who had stiffened and lifted his door wings defensively. “No, it’s all right,” Bluestreak said, and turned back to Ratchet. “There’s nothing to tell. He really didn’t do anything to me. Not like he’s done to others, anyway. The only thing he did was to scan for my serial code. So, I guess the ‘Cons have that info, now,” Bluestreak said. He hunched his shoulders slightly, trying not to think about all the things the Decepticons could do with his serial code. “And after he did that, he tried to convince me that I was someone else.”

The pitch of Prowl’s engine changed slightly, and Bluestreak looked at him again. Prowl’s door wings twitched slightly. “What do you mean?” Prowl asked, looking at Bluestreak intently. “Who did he say you were?”

“He said I was some seeker,” Bluestreak said with a shrug. “Someone named Thunderbolt. He apparently had this mech’s serial code memorized because they were together – you know, lovers - and he claims that I have the same code. That maybe the Autobots made a mistake, and put the wrong spark in my frame. But that’s ridiculous, right?” He smiled at Prowl. “I mean… You knew me really well before Praxus fell. You would have told me if something didn’t seem right about me. You would have been able to tell if I was really a Decepticon.” Prowl kept staring at him with a strange look, and Bluestreak felt his smile slip slightly. “Right?” Bluestreak prompted.

Before Prowl could reply, Ratchet said, “Knowing Vortex, he was just planting seeds for some kind of manipulative game down the road.” The doctor finished his scan and pulled his data cables free of Bluestreak’s medical ports. “Primus forfend that you ever get captured again, of course. But if you do, keep that in mind.”

Bluestreak nodded. “I will,” he said, and looked back at Prowl.

Prowl had continued to stare at Bluestreak. His door wings had dipped down, but he lifted them again when he noticed Bluestreak’s gaze turn towards him. Then he smiled slightly and put his hand on Bluestreak’s. “I’m just glad that you’ve come back to us safely,” he said.

Beside him, Hound shifted in his recharge, his frown deepening. Bluestreak froze, blanking his processor and hoping that he hadn’t woken Hound with his thoughts. Finally, Hound relaxed again, his face smoothing into a more neutral expression.

After Ratchet had released Bluestreak from medical, Hound was waiting in the hall for him. Bluestreak was touched by how worried Hound had been for him, even though he’d only been gone for a day or so. The green mech immediately led him back to their quarters, kicked their roommates out, and proceeded to reassure himself that Bluestreak was fine. Bluestreak was happy to cooperate, allowing Hound to pull him into a berth and have his way with him. Bluestreak hadn’t minded the overloads, either.

But his mind had kept drifting back to the odd expression that Prowl had after hearing what Vortex had told him. There was something in the set of his door wings, something in his optics, something in the forced smile that he’d given him, that Bluestreak’s processor kept returning to, over and over.

Hound shifted once more, and the arm he’d thrown over Bluestreak’s chest twitched. Deciding that there was no point in both of them being awake, Bluestreak gently pulled their cables free of one another before carefully extricating himself from the berth. As soon as he was standing, Hound settled and stopped moving.

As Bluestreak turned to leave their quarters, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging next to Trailbreaker’s berth. He paused, considering his reflection. In the dim light of their quarters, he spread his door wings wide. In his dreams and in his nightmares, he almost always had huge wings. And in dream logic, it always made sense that he could fly with them.

What would he look like if he had the wings of a seeker?

He stared at his reflection for another moment, trying to picture himself with actual wings. But all he could see was himself: a grey and red Praxian.

He shook his helm and slipped out of the room.

A few mechs were still up and about. Night shift didn’t start for another hour, while other mechs were just coming off afternoon shift. Bluestreak made his way to the rec room, and waved at Tracks and Blaster, who had commandeered the television and the couch. Blaster glanced up when Bluestreak walked in. “Hey there, Blue,” he called. “We’re just catchin’ the start of _WKRP_. Did you wanna join us?”

“Not tonight,” Bluestreak said. He walked over to one of the entertainment terminals on the side of the room and flicked it on. “I’m going to get caught up on my show. But thanks!”

Blaster waved an acknowledgement and turned back to the large screen.

To avoid the inevitable arguments when different mechs wanted to watch different shows, the Autobots had set up several small terminals that anyone could use to watch or download shows or movies that Teletraan 1 saved in its system. While one group was watching something on the large screen, other mechs could watch something on the smaller screens. The terminals were designed just for entertainment purposes, but were connected to the main network on the Ark.

They would suit Bluestreak’s purposes just fine.

Bluestreak sat down in front of the terminal and plugged his data cable into the unit. He actually **was** a few shows behind on _Airwolf_, so he started up the first episode that he had missed.

As String and Dom worked to foil another plot using their incredibly sexy undercover military helicopter, Bluestreak accessed the main network and slipped through the cracks into the Autobot datanet. While his optics were fixed on the screen in front of him, watching the show, his processor listened for any sign that Teletraan 1 detected the triple-encrypted carrier program Bluestreak was using to insert himself into the net.

Nothing pinged back. A quick scan showed Bluestreak that the Autobots had only clumsily patched the backdoor that he’d discovered way back when he was stationed in Rodion. Bluestreak felt slightly insulted that they hadn’t bothered asking for his help in fixing the security flaw. With a few small configuration changes, this hole would have been completely gone. Well, mostly... Bluestreak still probably could have found a way in. It just wouldn’t have been this easy.

_You were the best hacker I’ve ever seen in my life_, Vortex had said.

Bluestreak pressed his lips together and pushed that voice out of his mind.

He quickly found the personnel files of the Ark crew members, and pulled up his own record. He skimmed backwards in time through the record: his commission for the Ark crew, his commendations earned while serving in Eremus Unit Theta 8, his transfer to the unit, his initial posting at Rodion, his artillery and sniper training, his stint in basic training, his reconstruction and rehabilitation at Iacon General Hospital... Bluestreak stopped skimming and began reading the directory summaries, still paging backwards through his record.

He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he was sure that he’d know if it he saw it.

_Bluestreak of Praxus_  
_Recovered as ‘unidentified mech’ from Quartz District, search quadrant Gamma 519, in critical condition_  
_ Stabilized and transported to Iacon General Hospital_  
_ Request for medical transfer authorized by Lieutenant Prowl of Praxus on 1352.02.3955.64_  
_ Identified on 1352.02.3955.67 as Bluestreak of Praxus. Identification confirmed by Prowl of Praxus_

_Bluestreak of Praxus_  
_ Commander of Quartz District, Praxian Civil Defense Corps_  
_ Promotion granted 1340.22.4568.35_

_Bluestreak of Praxus_  
_Lieutenant of Quartz District, Precinct 3, Praxian Civil Defense Corps_  
_Promotion granted 1311.36.2214.57_

_Bluestreak of Praxus_  
_Officer of Spinel District, Precinct 2, Praxian Civil Defense Corps_  
_Commission granted 1274.56.6684.25_

Bluestreak frowned and drummed his fingers against his knee in time to the music in the show as he thought. Nothing unusual was jumping out at him. He opened one of the directories and looked at files inside, picking one at random.

_Bluestreak of Praxus (Serial code: **** **** **** **** MP11B)_  
_Private, Autobot Artillary, Rodion Base_  
_Addition to service record._  
_On 1366.02.8532.55, Private Bluestreak was detected accessing the Autobot datanet without authorization. This issue was taken to his commanding officer and I recommended expulsion from the Autobots. Sergeant Roadbuster did not follow standard security protocol, and referred the matter to Lieutenant Prowl for unknown reasons. I escalated the matter to Base Commander Ironhide, who advised me that the matter was being handled. I registered my concern that this violation was not being taken seriously, and was further advised to drop the matter._  
_Refer to file: Enhanced Surveillance of Private Bluestreak of Praxus._  
_-Lieutenant Red Alert, Director of Security, Rodion Base_

Bluestreak blew a gust of air from his vents. Of all the files to open at random while he was in the process of hacking into the datanet again. He flipped backwards through his record and selected another file.

_Bluestreak of Praxus (Serial code: **** **** **** **** MP11B)_  
_Session date: 1358.58.2344.63_  
_Patient is responding well to rehabilitation. Today Bluestreak spent one hour on the stairs and another two hours on the vehicle mode treadmill. He is still demonstrating weakness in his left leg, and seems to be trying to use his sensor wings to stabilize his balance. Further work on the balance table should correct that tendency. Also recommending another motor function scan to ensure his mobility protocols are not corrupted, as his gait is unusual for a ground frame. He continues to be a pleasure to work with, and he has proven to be a source of inspiration for the other patients._  
_-Technician Pipette, Rehabilitation Department, Iacon General Hospital_

Bluestreak’s brow ridges rose. Pipette called him a ‘source of inspiration’ and ‘pleasure to work with’? He remembered the surly technician who seemed to take satisfaction in causing Bluestreak pain. But for some reason, the tech had written glowing things about him where Bluestreak would never be expected to read them. Bluestreak smiled to himself. Maybe Hound had been right about the tech having a prickly exterior but a spark of gold.

He briefly wondered what had happened to the tech.

The next file he opened had some text, but included several photos. After just a quick glance at them, Bluestreak’s tanks lurched, and he immediately closed the file again. He was glad that he hadn’t picked up his ration yet, or else he probably would have ended up wearing it.

He hadn’t caught what the text had said, but the file was in the directory about his frame being recovered in Praxus. The images that Bluestreak had seen before closing the file were of a mech’s frame, crushed, broken, and covered in energon. He’d caught impressions of silver plating, limbs crumpled beyond repair, and the glimmer of sparklight glowing faintly in what remained of the mech’s chest.

Bluestreak shuddered, remembering Prowl’s description of the damage he’d sustained in the attack on Praxus, and how he was lucky to be alive.

He watched the screen of the entertainment terminal for another minute, waiting for his spark to settle. The humans were flying through canyons in their helicopter. Normally Bluestreak would be admiring the vehicle’s lines, but his processor was still consumed with what he had just seen. Finally, after allowing himself to calm completely, he opened an earlier file in his record and began to read again.

_Bluestreak of Praxus (Serial code: **** **** **** **** MP18S)_  
_Praxus Gazette, 1340.22.4569.92_  
_Headline: New Civil Defense Commander Installed in Quartz District_  
_Commander Bluestreak of Praxus was officially installed as the chief of the Quartz District this afternoon. The new Commander has served as a lieutenant in the Praxian Civil Defense Corp for the past 290 years, and has received several commendations for loyalty and service during his tenure. The Commander has prioritized increased surveillance to discover threats to Praxus, and promised to have new aerial defense systems installed around the city’s perimeter._  
_ “With the tensions between the Autobots and Decepticons increasing steadily, it’s important for us to keep our citizens safe,” Commander Bluestreak said to reporters after his installation. “With the Praxian Council insisting on neutrality, it is up to Civil Defense to protect our citizens from any threats that arise, either internally or externally, from the ground or from the air, and from either side of the conflict.”_

Attached to the article was a photo of Bluestreak, sensor wings spread wide, as he received his emblems of rank. He wasn’t smiling, and looked very serious as the emblems were applied to his sensor wings.

Bluestreak had known that he’d been a ranking officer in the Civil Defense Corps; Prowl had told him that much. He’d also known that he was a district commander. Bluestreak had never asked Prowl much about that time of his life, since the conversations about Bluestreak’s past in Praxus always seemed to upset him. Maybe he should make a point of asking Prowl about it now.

Bluestreak was about to flick to another file, still not sure what he was looking for, when something in the back of his processor nagged at him. There was something different about this file from the previous ones he’d looked at. He cycled back to the entry from Pipette, then returned to the story of his installation as Commander.

His optics widened when he noticed it. All of the files were coded with a masked version of his serial code. It was standard to only display the last set of characters, since that was usually enough for a quick identification and to confirm that the file was genuine.

Somewhere around the time that Praxus was razed, the serial code in his file changed.

_Maybe it’s a mistake_, Bluestreak thought desperately. _Maybe the wrong code was recorded somewhere._ He opened an earlier file. He only had to read the first line of the file, and he felt his tank lurch again. He opened another file, and another, and another, but all of them started with the same designation and serial code.

_Bluestreak of Praxus (Serial code: **** **** **** **** MP18S)_

The same code was listed on all of the entries from before the fall of Praxus... And while that code was similar, it was not his.

In his memory, he heard Vortex’s voice, and saw the copter wave the spark scanner at him. _I know this code – your code - as well as I know my own. It’s Thunderbolt’s code._

Bluestreak’s spark stuttered as he realized that Vortex might have been telling the truth. The Bluestreak who was in the Praxian Civil Defense Corps and who helped defend the city-state from intrusion did not have the same spark serial code as the Bluestreak who woke up in the Iacon hospital.

“Who am I?” Bluestreak whispered.

“Whatcha up to, Blue?”

“Aaah!” Bluestreak jumped, kicking the side of the terminal and letting out a bleat of surprise. “Primus, Jazz! Don’t sneak up on me like that.” He made a show of resettling his plating while he frantically started pulling his processor threads out of the datanet. If he did it too quickly his intrusion would be easy to detect, and –

Jazz leaned over Bluestreak’s shoulder and yanked his data cables free of the terminal ports. As soon as Jazz pulled his cable out of the port, Bluestreak felt the program he’d built to let him slip into the network freeze, then crumble as the connection was broken. The remaining shards of the program would be simple for anyone to find in the network and trace back to him. Bluestreak looked back up at Jazz and felt his spark sink when he saw the expression on Jazz’s face.

“I’m just checkin’ to see what yer up to, like I asked,” Jazz said. He let Bluestreak’s cable retract from his fingers, and gave the Praxian a smile that didn’t look real. He dropped his voice lower so that only Bluestreak could hear him. “So. Care to tell me what you were doin’?”

The entertainment terminal was still playing an episode of _Airwolf_. Bluestreak worked his intake and offered Jazz a smile. “I couldn’t recharge,” he said truthfully. “And I’m behind on my show.” Also true!

Jazz nodded as if he accepted that answer, but the arms he crossed over his chest spoke a different story. He waited a beat until there was a peal of laughter from the large television before speaking. “And what were ya doin’ in the datanet?” he asked pointedly, his voice still quiet.

Busted.

For about two microseconds, Bluestreak considered lying. But he knew that lying to Jazz was a certified Bad Idea. “I was just...” Bluestreak rubbed the back of his neck. He thought about Prowl’s threats in Rodion to kick him out of the Autobots if Bluestreak hacked into the datanet again. But he also thought of Prowl’s face, back when Bluestreak first woke in Iacon, and how sad and relieved he looked at seeing his friend was still alive. His friend... His lover... The other Bluestreak. Then he thought of Prowl’s reaction to Bluestreak’s statement that Vortex had told him that he was someone else.

Did Prowl suspect after all?

Bluestreak looked up at Jazz, his door wings sinking low on his back, and told the truth. “I was just looking for something. Just... Something that Vortex told me. I wanted to see for myself.” Bluestreak worked his intake as he recalled the anguish on the interrogator’s face when he read his serial code. “And I think... I think I need to talk to Prowl,” Bluestreak said softly. He glanced over at the TV, and saw that Blaster and Tracks still seemed engrossed in their show. “But not here.”

Jazz clapped a hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder armor. “That’s something we agree on,” the spy said. “Let’s go.”

Bluestreak followed behind Jazz towards the command section of the Ark, but he wasn’t paying much attention to exactly where they were going. His processor churned, trying to sort out what he’d discovered.

He was not the Bluestreak that Prowl knew. He might not even be Praxian. In fact, if Vortex was telling the truth, Bluestreak was a flight frame. He was a seeker! And if that was true...

That meant that he was a Decepticon.

A shiver ran through Bluestreak’s frame. All of those things he’d seen Decepticons do, all the atrocities he’d seen the aftermath of, all of the pain the Decepticons had caused to Bluestreak’s unit and his friends... Was he really one of them? He hugged his arms across his chest as he recalled Prowl’s visceral hatred of Decepticons for what they’d done to Praxus, and to him.

Or to who Prowl thought he was.

Bluestreak wasn’t in the command section of the Ark often, but he knew his way to Prowl’s office. He often went there when Jazz wasn’t around, just to make sure his friend was still fueling and wasn’t working too hard. But when he looked up, he realized they’d passed Prowl’s office, and instead were heading towards Optimus Prime’s office.

The door opened as they approached, and Bluestreak felt his spark stutter in its casing again. Had they realized the same thing as he had? Did they realize he might have been a Decepticon? Was he going to be kicked out of the Autobots after all?

Bluestreak clamped his plating down to keep it from rattling as they stepped through the door. Inside, Optimus sat at his desk, his hands folded in front of him. Prowl sat in one of the guest chairs, his helm tipped down and his door wings low against his back. He glanced up at Bluestreak as he came in, then quickly looked away.

_Oh frag_, Bluestreak thought. _He knows I’m not who he thought I am._

Drawing a vent of air, Bluestreak snapped to attention with a “Sirs!”

“Bluestreak,” Optimus said. He gestured at the chair next to Prowl. “Please. At ease. Sit down.” When Bluestreak didn’t move immediately, Jazz gave him a gentle push. That prompt was enough for Bluestreak to nod and then slip into the chair beside Prowl. As soon as Bluestreak was seated, Optimus said, “I understand that you were accessing the Autobot datanet.”

Jazz must have commed ahead. They knew what he had been doing. Bluestreak gave another small nod. “Yes, sir,” he murmured, not daring to look at Prowl.

“I also understand that, while you were captured, Vortex said some things to you that might have been... confusing,” Optimus said. He tipped his helm slightly. “Am I correct?”

Bluestreak looked at Prowl, who was still staring at the floor, then back to Optimus. “Yes,” he said. He flicked his door wings out and cycled his vents. He had to tell them. Bluestreak looked at Prowl and said, “Prowl, I’m not who you think I am.”

Prowl looked up, his optics wide. “Bluestreak, I...” he started to say.

Bluestreak held up a hand to stop Prowl. If he didn’t get this out now, he wasn’t sure he would have the courage to do so later. “I got to thinking about what Vortex had said, and some of it made sense. And I couldn’t recharge, so I – yes, I hacked into the datanet. I **know** I promised to never do that again, but I needed to look for myself. I’m sorry.” Prowl opened his mouth as if to say something else, but Bluestreak barreled on. “I **swear** I only looked at my own personnel files this time. But Vortex – he mentioned my serial code, so I went looking through my records, and... My code. It changed, around the time that Praxus fell. In fact, right when it did. I had one code before that, and another one after.” Bluestreak looked at Prowl, trying to discern some emotion from his friend, but Prowl was simply staring at him with the wide-opticked look he often used when Bluestreak was overwhelming him with words. “I... I think they made a mistake, back in Praxus, in all the confusion. They found a spark and they found a frame and... I think they matched them up wrong. I’m not who you think I am.” Bluestreak lowered his door wings, hoping to soften what he was about to say. “I’m not your Bluestreak, Prowl.”

Prowl‘s look of surprise faded at Bluestreak’s last words, replaced by a sad frown. Then Prowl nodded. “I know that.”

Bluestreak stared at Prowl. _He knew?_ “You know?” he asked. Of course. They knew he was in the datanet, somehow. He was a good hacker, but so was Jazz. They must have known what he was looking at, and seen the serial codes, and Prowl must have come to the same conclusion that Bluestreak had, and-

“Yes.” Prowl visibly gathered himself, and met Bluestreak’s gaze. “I know you’re not... I know that you’re not **my** Bluestreak.” His glossa flicked out, wetting his lips, and then he added, “I’ve **always** known. I’ve known since the before you woke up in Iacon General Hospital who you really are. And... I owe you an explanation.”

Bluestreak stared at Prowl, but wasn’t really looking at him. His processor whirled in a thousand different directions, and each one brought him back to the same incredible statement: Prowl **knew** that he wasn’t really Bluestreak.

He knew. He knew? He’d always known?

Bluestreak wondered if this is what it felt like to have a processor crash.

All of the questions he wanted to ask queued up in his vocalizer. What the frag? How did Prowl know? Why did Prowl not tell him? So it was true, he really wasn’t Bluestreak? Was Vortex right? Also: **what the frag?**

But instead, all that came out of Bluestreak’s mouth was a static-filled “What?”

Prowl glanced at Optimus, then back to Bluestreak. “Just before the fall of Praxus, I was working on an analysis of troop numbers, and I discovered that the Autobots had a problem. The Decepticons had control of all of the major spark fields remaining on Cybertron, and were systematically eradicating all of the remaining neutral cities. So, I approached a scientist I knew with an idea: take Decepticon sparks and plant them in new frames, then bring them back online as Autobots. Alongside a doctor we’d brought onboard, they developed a method for removing a spark from a frame, seating it in an entirely new one, and flashing a new processor to the spark. It had never been done before; only rebuilds of existing frames had successfully been accomplished up until that point.” Prowl’s door wings wavered behind him, and his voice crackled with static. “Then Praxus was attacked, and a severely damaged Decepticon seeker was discovered in the rubble.” Prowl glanced down at his lap, where his fingers of his hands were knit together. “You, in other words. We... We took that opportunity to attempt the impossible... And we succeeded.” Prowl looked up at Bluestreak again with a somber expression. “A brand new processor was flashed to pair with your spark, and you were brought back online as Bluestreak.”

“But...” Bluestreak shook his helm. “I was... Bluestreak was someone you...” He paused and tried to collect his thoughts again. “You had photos. My service record. Stories of the two of us. If I’m not Bluestreak, that means... It means...” His processor made the connections between what Prowl had just told him, and what Prowl had told him so long ago. He gestured with his hands, trying to find a way to express just one of the turmoil of emotions inside of him. He finally settled on anger. “Did you **seriously** bring a Decepticon back to life as your dead lover?” Bluestreak couldn’t stop the snarl of his engine. “Because that is seriously fragged up.”

“Those’re exactly the same words I used, Blue,” Jazz said from where he was leaning against the wall behind Optimus.

Prowl was shaking his helm. “It was not my intention to... to bring **my** Bluestreak back to life. **Please** believe me,” Prowl pleaded. “It simply seemed to make sense at the time. You were the first attempt at the process, and I needed to be able to monitor you closely for... for Decepticon tendencies.” Prowl’s door wings canted downwards apologetically. “Bluestreak was dead. He was killed when Praxus was razed. I mourned him, but we were at war. I knew I needed to carry on. I knew that you were not the same Bluestreak I knew before, and I knew that you were previously a Decepticon. I was **sure** that I could keep my emotions separate from the task at hand. After all, I couldn’t see myself empathizing with a Decepticon. Not after what they did to Praxus... And to Bluestreak. **My** Bluestreak.” Prowl pulled a vent, and when he looked at Bluestreak his optics were sorrowful. “But I was not prepared for how much you looked like him. And then... While you are **very** different from how he was... I found myself becoming fond of you, despite myself. I found myself wanting to be your friend. For real. For who you **really** are.” Lifting his helm, Prowl looks at the ceiling and said, “After I realized that, I had the program stopped. Even though we’d perfected the technique, I couldn’t let the program continue in good conscience. So... I ordered it cancelled and the research destroyed.”

Bluestreak stared at Prowl as every conversation they’d had flickered through his mind. Prowl had known, all that time, that he wasn’t his Bluestreak. Prowl had known that everything he’d told Bluestreak about himself was a lie. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Bluestreak asked, his voice crackling with static.

Prowl’s door wings shot upwards, then fell once more. “I... was afraid. Of this reaction,” he said. “I know I should have told you as soon as I’d decided that the program was unethical. I know I should have told you the moment I didn’t want the charade to continue. But I was afraid of how you’d react.” Prowl lowered his optics. “And the more time went by, the harder it became to tell you. So I didn’t.” He looked back up at Bluestreak once more. “I am so sorry.”

Bluestreak ripped his optics away from Prowl, still stinging from the knowledge that his friend – someone who he thought had been his lover in a previous life – had lied to him so outrageously. He looked at Optimus, and at Jazz. “Who else knows about this?” Bluestreak scratched out. Prowl had mentioned scientists, and doctors. Did Smokescreen know? Ratchet? Wheeljack? Perceptor? Skyfire? Did **everyone** on the Ark know but him?

“On Earth, only those of us in this room know,” Optimus said. His deep and steady voice brought Bluestreak’s spark rate down just slightly. “And I was only made aware of your true identity earlier this evening.” He cast a disapproving glance at Prowl, who wilted under his gaze. “And Jazz was told just before me. No one else here knows.” 

“Pharma knew, of course” said Prowl. “And we worked with a scientist named Mesothulas. If they are still alive after all this time, once we re-establish communication with Cybertron, we will ensure that they continue to keep this information confidential.”

“Confidential. Right.” Bluestreak shook his helm. His processor whirled as he tried to sort out everything that he’d just been told. It felt like everything he knew had been picked up and turned ninety degrees. “I’m not sure why you expect me to believe anything that you say, Prowl,” he snapped. He knew he should be reining in the anger brewing within him, but the words kept pouring out of him anyway. “You ripped me out of my frame, stuck me in another, lied to me about who I was, lied to me about what’d I’d done.” He flared his door wings out and lifted his hands as if he could draw his words from the air. “I spent hundreds of years trying to figure out why my frame looked wrong. Did you know that I have dreams about flying? That I have nightmares about having my wings torn off? I spent ages trying to get to know myself, trying to figure out who I was. But meanwhile, the mech I thought I was... he was **dead** this whole time? And you **knew**?” Bluestreak’s engine roared as he stood up, and he felt a small flash of satisfaction as Prowl shrank away from him.

“All right, Blue,” Jazz said. He’d stepped away from the wall as Bluestreak rose to his pedes, and grabbed Bluestreak’s arm. “I know yer angry, and ya got every right to be. But let’s talk about what you want done next.”

“Next?” Bluestreak stared at Jazz, and numbly sat down when Jazz pushed on his elbow. Bluestreak looked at Optimus. “I’m... I’m a Decepticon. I can’t stay.” He looked at Jazz, then back at Optimus. “Can I?” His voice sounded small.

“Bluestreak, I know that this must be a terrible shock to you. But you should know that your actions have spoken loudly on your behalf,” Optimus said. He rose from behind his desk, and walked around it to kneel before Bluestreak. Even with the Prime on his knees, Bluestreak had to tip his helm upwards to meet his optics. “I am very familiar with your record. You have more than proven yourself in your tours of duty, and the commendations that you’ve earned.”

“If I had any doubts about your loyalty...” Prowl’s voice sounded thin. When Bluestreak looked at him, Prowl dipped his door wings and reset his vocalizer. “Part of the rationale for keeping you close to me was to monitor your political leanings. If I thought for a moment that you would defect back to the Decepticons...” Prowl’s voice faded out.

“He’d’ve put ya down,” Jazz said bluntly. When Bluestreak looked at him in surprise at his bluntness, Jazz shrugged. “I just read all the reports on this program Prowl was runnin.’ Not all of the implanted sparks became Autobots. For some of ‘em, their Decepticon sympathies ran spark-deep.” Jazz tipped his helm towards Prowl. “But Prowl’s reports showed that yours aligned itself with the Autobots, almost right off the post.”

Another thought occurred to Bluestreak, and he looked at Prowl, trying to suppress the rumble of anger from his engine when he looked at the Praxian. “How many others were there?” he asked. “And... Are there any others here on Earth?”

“There were only twelve sparks that were successfully implanted into new frames,” Prowl said quietly. “Three of them were... disposed of after exhibiting sympathy towards the actions of the Decepticons. Six more died in the line of duty for the Autobots on Cybertron, before the Ark left. One remained back on Cybertron. So...” Prowl’s optics met Bluestreak’s. “There is one other here on Earth.”

“Who?” Bluestreak asked, then held up his hand. “Wait. Maybe I don’t want to know, after all. I mean... Do **they** know? About who they are?” He thought about all of the other mechs on Earth, wondering which of them might be someone other than who they thought they were.

Optimus shook his helm. “No. But we will be giving them the same information that you have just received. Everyone deserves to know who they really are.” He looked at Prowl once more, his tone dripping with disappointment, and the Praxian’s door wings drooped again. “That information will be confidential, for them to keep secret or to tell others, as they wish. As far as we know, however, they do not suspect that they are anyone other than who they think they are.”

“So you don’t think they feel like there’s something wrong? Like I did?” Bluestreak asked.

Prowl shook his helm. “You were the pilot for the project, and... We made some miscalculations,” he said slowly, as if carefully choosing his words. Then he paused. “No. We made **mistakes**. We took a spark that was on the verge of guttering. That fear of being crushed and trapped appears to have imprinted on your spark, as you saw during your basic training.” With a glance at Optimus Prime, he continued. “We also did not expect the spark to have such an attachment to its frametype. It was a poor choice to put you in a ground frame, and... We did not make that error again. All subsequent candidate sparks were placed into a matching frametype.” Prowl lifted his hands as if to give a small shrug, and said, “I am so sorry for the anxiety it caused you over the years.”

Bluestreak nodded slowly, letting all of the information sink in. Then he looked at Optimus, and lifted his door wings slightly. “So... You aren’t kicking me out of the Autobots?” he asked.

“No,” Optimus said, and took one of Bluestreak’s hands in his huge one. “Of course we aren’t.” Optimus’s voice sounded sincere (as it always did), and Bluestreak felt himself relax slightly. “I know that you - your spark - once sided with the Decepticons, and fought for them. But if I didn’t believe that mechs could change, there would be no point in fighting this war.” Optimus patted Bluestreak’s hand. “As far as I am concerned, you are an Autobot through and through. But what comes next is up to you.”

“For my part,” Jazz said, “I’d like to see if I can borrow you from Artillery for a bit. The ‘Cons have one network that neither me nor Mirage have been able to hack into.” He grinned at Bluestreak, his visor gleaming in the overhead light of the Prime’s office. “After seein’ what ya did with our datanet, I’d love to know what you could do against Soundwave’s security.”

“And there is one more wrong that I would like to see corrected.” Prowl had picked up a datapad that sat on the desk beside him, and handed it to Bluestreak. “I believe you are owed several promotions, dating back several million years.” He looked at Bluestreak evenly, radiating sincerity. “I also admit to blocking your promotions so that I could better monitor your career. There is no need for that now.”

Bluestreak skimmed the datapad, and his door wings shot upwards. “First Sergeant?” he asked incredulously.

“It would be well deserved,” Prowl said quietly. “And long overdue.”

“So, Blue?” Jazz asked. “How about it?”

Bluestreak looked at Jazz, then at Optimus, still holding his hand. He looked at Prowl, noting how the Praxian’s door wings were canted downwards. He thought about Hound, and Trailbreaker, and all of his other friends. “I... I definitely want to stay in the Autobots,” Bluestreak said firmly. “But...” He pulled a deep vent. “This is a lot to take in. I think I need some time to process it all.”

“Of course,” Optimus said. He stood up and returned to his chair. “You are being placed on leave, effective immediately, to give you the time you need. And... If there is anything else you think you need, anything else you want us to do, anything that would help you come to terms with what you’ve learned today... Please let me know.”

Bluestreak nodded, then stood up. “Thank you,” he said. Then, with a final glance at Prowl, Bluestreak fled the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art for this chapter was done by Adi! Go check out their art on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Adithehella), [Tumblr](https://tfadi.tumblr.com/), and [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/Adithehella)!


	6. Restitution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak comes to terms with what he’s learned about himself... And moves on with his life in the best way he can.

He needed to think.

Bluestreak spent the next hour wandering the corridors of the Ark. He went down to the weapons locker, intending to disassemble and clean his rifle, but Sideswipe and Ironhide were already there working on their own weapons. Their raucous laughter chased Bluestreak away before he even stepped inside the door.

The rec room was full of mechs watching Saturday Night Live, and the mess hall was just as crowded. Even just walking around the Ark, aimlessly moving from room to room, Bluestreak kept running into mechs who wanted to stop and talk. Normally Bluestreak would have been happy to talk to any of them, but not tonight.

He needed to think.

Eventually, he left the Ark completely. He pinged his intentions to Teletraan 1 (“recreational drive”), waved to Huffer and Cliffjumper as he passed the exterior sentry position, and drove off into the night.

The dark sky was crystal clear, and Bluestreak found himself climbing the muddy switchback trail that rose into the mountains above the Ark entrance. Finally, he stopped and clambered up a rocky slope to the secluded overlook that he and Hound had discovered a few years previously.

Bluestreak sat on the edge of the cliff, letting his pedes dangle over the edge. He looked out over the valley below the Ark. He watched the strange constellations wheel slowly overhead. He thought about what he’d been told.

So.

He was really a Decepticon. Or rather, he’d started out as one. And he was really a seeker. Or rather, that was the frametype he’d been forged with.

Prowl had known all of this all along. Prowl, who Bluestreak had thought was his old lover. Prowl, who he’d considered his closest friend (after Hound). Prowl, who he’d looked up to and trusted.

Prowl had **known**.

Prowl had lied to him, misled him, and manipulated him. Looking back at his career in the Autobots, it was so easy to see all of the times that Prowl had laid his finger on the scale and tipped the direction of Bluestreak’s path in the direction he wanted it to go.

Prowl had stood before him, with door wings tipped downwards in the most apologetic stance Bluestreak had ever seen him take, and apologized. But Bluestreak couldn’t even fathom being angry at Prowl for all that he’d done to him. He was beyond angry.

He was simply and utterly disillusioned.

Bluestreak’s comm pinged at him, and he accepted the static message from Jazz. ::I figured ya wouldn’t want to hear from Prowl about now, so I’m sendin’ this on his behalf. This is all the info on what was done to ya. It’s all still classified, technically, but Prowl thought you should know all of it. And he said the information is yours to do with as ya wish. Oh, and I’ve also included a few things I’ve snagged from the ‘Cons that ya might find interesting.:: Attached to the comm was a packet of data.

Bluestreak opened the packet and flipped through the files. They started with a summary of the project, and then the first report of the “candidate spark.” The spark that was his.

_Candidate spark recovered in Praxus, Quartz District, search quadrant Gamma 519 on 1352.02.3955.59.  
Candidate is Decepticon seeker, likely shot down by Praxian Civil Defense Corp anti-aircraft fire. Spark located in critical condition. Stabilized by recovery team, transported to Iacon General Hospital. Official identification performed after return to Iacon. New identity files drafted._

Bluestreak flipped through a few more reports about his spark being seated in a new casing, getting it to unite with the frame they’d provided, and pairing a processor with his spark. A note was attached to one of the reports once his spark was accepted by the frame and the processor. _Huge success!_ the note read, from a scientist named Mesothulas. _It is hard to overstate my satisfaction with this result._

Bluestreak switched to another file inside the packet; this one had all of the information that Jazz had been able to collect about Thunderbolt of Vos. Inside that file were a few photos, all labeled with Thunderbolt’s designation. Thunderbolt had a classic seeker frame, painted in blue and silver with yellow trim. His wings were wide, and his dark face was framed by the broad intake vents common to all seekers. The first photo he saw was of Thunderbolt standing at attention alongside other seekers, all of them with Decepticon brands on their wings.

Another photo looked like it had been taken pre-war, in which Thunderbolt stood next to a rotary frame. Bluestreak realized it was a photo of him and Vortex.

They both looked so happy. Thunderbolt was leaning on Vortex’s shoulder, and they both looked like they were laughing at some hilarious joke. Thunderbolt’s broad and easy smile looked eerily familiar. With a jolt, Bluestreak realized that he saw that same smile anytime someone took a photo of him smiling now.

But no matter how long he looked at the images, all of them made Bluestreak feel as if he was looking at a stranger.

He sat on the overlook, alternating between reading the files Jazz had sent him and staring out over the dark valley. Off in the distance he could see headlights from vehicles on the human highway. When the moon set, the gauzy veil of the galaxy spread out over him.

He felt terribly alone.

About two hours before dawn, Hound pinged him. The green mech had woken from recharge to find Bluestreak missing from the berth. ::Blue! How long have you been up? You didn’t have another nightmare, did you?::

Bluestreak smiled up at the stars upon hearing Hound’s voice. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear a friendly voice. ::No. I just needed to think about some... stuff.::

Hound’s tone became tinged with concern. ::Are you all right? Was it something Vortex did? I thought you said he didn’t do anything to you.::

::He didn’t. It was something he said. And... something Prowl did.:: Bluestreak thought about how the Jeep always had a friendly smile and wise words when he needed them. If he was going to tell anyone else about his secret, he was going to have to tell Hound. ::I’m outside, on our overlook. Can you come here? I’d rather have this conversation in person.::

Hound pinged an acceptance. With a soft sigh of both relief and trepidation, Bluestreak leaned back on his hands to wait.

It was only about ten minutes before he saw Hound’s headlights climbing the last hill to the cutoff for their overlook. Hound could go much further on the rough ground than Bluestreak could, but even he needed to transform to climb the last few meters. He settled to the ground next to Bluestreak and looked up at the night sky. “So many stars out tonight!” Hound said quietly. When Bluestreak nodded, Hound looked over at him, and covered one of Bluestreak’s hands with his. “So... What’s up, Blue?”

“I’m going to just unload all of this, ok? And I need you to just listen until I’m done.” When Hound nodded in understanding, Bluestreak pulled a full vent of air and began to tell Hound what had happened.

From the moment of their capture the previous day to the ping that Hound had given him just a while earlier, Bluestreak told Hound everything that had happened. How he and Sunstreaker had gotten themselves captured. How he found himself drawn to Vortex, even though he knew what a horror he’d been to his Autobot friends. How he’d told Vortex how beautiful he was, and how Vortex had reacted. The spark scan, Vortex’s claim about who Bluestreak really was, the rescue, waking up and hacking into the datanet, discovering the discrepancies in his record, Jazz taking him to the Prime’s office, and Prowl’s confession. He explained who he really was, and what he’d really done before Praxus. He told Hound how he’d been taken off active duty for the time being, and how he was supposed to take time to consider his next steps.

When Bluestreak finally ran out of words, he didn’t dare look at Hound. His lover had stayed quiet through the whole story, not commenting or asking questions. He just listened. Hound’s hand was still covering Bluestreak’s, and it was warm. After a full minute of silence, Hound’s fingers traced small circles on the back of Bluestreak’s hand, and he finally spoke. “That’s... a lot,” Hound said.

“I know. Which is why I’m up here. I needed to let it all sink in,” Bluestreak said. He hazarded a look at Hound, but the Jeep’s optics were fixed on the stars.

“That’s understandable.” Hound asked quietly. He continued gently rubbing circles on Bluestreak’s hand. “You must feel like your entire life has been upended.”

“Yeah.” Bluestreak blew another vent of air. “And... knowing all of the slag that Mirage got a few years ago, when everyone suspected him of being a Decepticon spy... **Please** don’t tell anyone.” He worked his intake, trying to picture himself at the receiving end of the bullying that poor Mirage had received, mostly from Cliffjumper. It had taken Optimus himself reading the riot act to the worst of the offenders to finally kill that particular rumour.

“I won’t. I promise,” Hound said. His fingers finally curled around and under Bluestreak’s, giving them a gentle squeeze. “But why are you telling me in the first place?”

“Because. It was only fair that you know you’ve been crossing cables with a Decepticon,” Bluestreak said. He wasn’t able to remove the quaver from his words before they left his vocalizer.

He heard Hound shift, and looked to see the green mech had twisted to face him. Hound’s expression was as serious as he’d ever seen it. “But I’m not, Blue. You’re not a Decepticon.”

“But...” Bluestreak put a hand on his chest over his spark as he felt it twist inside its chamber. “I **was**. I was part of the attack on Praxus. For all we know, we’d shot at each other during some battle.” He looked at Hound, and felt a chill of fear run through him at the thought that, at some point in the past, he might have come close to killing this wonderful spark beside him.

Hound shook his helm, and scooted closer to Bluestreak. He brushed the side of Bluestreak’s helm, and ran his thumb down the optical seam on his cheek. “You’re **not** a Decepticon, Bluestreak,” Hound said firmly. “I’ve fought alongside you for centuries. You are as much an Autobot as I am.” He smiled finally, and added, “Maybe even more so, since now you outrank me.”

Bluestreak felt something loosen in his spark, and a soft burble of laugher came out of his vocalizer. He closed his optics as Hound drew their helms together, and bumped his forehelm to Bluestreak’s chevron. “Thank you, Hound,” Bluestreak said quietly. “You have no idea how much it means to hear you say that.”

“I mean it. You’ve shown nothing but loyalty to the Autobots since I first met you. Every time you’ve had self-doubts, it was about your own performance, not about whether you believe what the Autobots are fighting for,” Hound said. He kissed Bluestreak, then pulled Bluestreak’s helm against his shoulder. “And you’re a light and a joy in my own life. I’m glad that I got a chance to meet you.”

They leaned back against the rock wall behind them, and Bluestreak curled himself into Hound’s side. “I’m glad I got a chance to meet you, too,” Bluestreak murmured. He pressed his nasal ridge into Hound’s neck, inhaling the scents of pine and spring water that he now associated with the green mech. “And thank you for listening.”

“I’m just glad you had someone here who you trusted enough to tell,” Hound said. He brushed his fingers down the side of Bluestreak’s helm. “And I’m sorry that it was Prowl who did all of this. I know you two were close.”

With a low rumble of his engine, Bluestreak sat up and tipped his helm back so it rested against the cliff face. “Yeah,” he muttered. He worked his intake as he looked out over the valley, trying to keep the static from his voice. “I’m sorry, too.”

They sat in silence for another minute.

“So what are you going to do now?” Hound asked.

Bluestreak glanced at Hound. “What do you mean? I’m staying with the Autobots, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Hound shook his helm. “No. I mean...” He gestured at Bluestreak with a wave of his hand. “I mean... Are you going to get a new body? If they can swing it, of course, and get the parts. You used to have such a problem with how you looked before...”

“Oh.” Bluestreak chewed on his lower lip as he thought. “I don’t know. I’m kind of used to this one now. It feels a lot better than the old one I had on Cybertron, and this one doesn’t **look** as wrong, you know?” He shrugged. “Plus... I really like driving. I like the feeling of having my wheels on the road. Going on long drives is fun, and racing on the track is amazing. I couldn’t do that as an airframe. But...” Bluestreak frowned. “I’ve **always** wanted to fly. At least now I know why.” He looked up at the sky, scanning the blanket of stars overhead. A soft glow had formed on the eastern horizon; dawn would arrive before too much longer. “Optimus asked whether there was anything I wanted, after finding all of this out... Anything that would help me adjust to what I know now. I’d tried to get my shuttle licence before we left Cybertron, but maybe...”

Hound hummed thoughtfully. “It’s a nice thought, but we’ve only got one working shuttle,” he said. “I don’t know that they’d want to let an inexperienced pilot near it.”

“I guess,” Bluestreak said with a sigh. Then he laughed. “Maybe Skyfire would let me practice flying him.”

Hound grinned at Bluestreak, his optics sparkling with humour. “That’s kind of kinky,” he said. “But then again, I know Skyfire kind of likes you.”

They both laughed.

As the glow of predawn grew brighter, Bluestreak scanned the sky again. He wanted something other than what he’d heard tonight to think about. His optics focused on a point of light moving across the sky. “Did you ever get those new star charts installed like you’d asked for?” Bluestreak asked.

“Yup,” Hound said. “Wheeljack got me the charts just last week. It took a while because they had get Teletraan 1 to do all the scans, then cross-reference it with the data from NASA and ESA, and then convert them to a format we could use.”

Bluestreak pointed at the fleck of light cruising just above them. “That satellite above us... Do you know whose that is?”

Hound was silent for a moment. Then he said, “It’s in the charts, but it’s not labelled. Wheeljack said that means it’s probably the Soviet Union’s. The Americans don’t know about that one yet.” He frowned. “We should probably tell them about it.”

“Later?” Bluestreak wrapped his arm around Hound’s and twined their fingers together. “After the sunrise?”

Hound smiled at him, and gently bumped their shoulders together. “Of course,” he said.

They sat and watched as the light of the sunrise spread across the valley below them, chasing shadows from every corner until everything glowed brightly.

* * *

Bluestreak hesitated at the door of the office and shook the tension out of his door wings.

He had not been looking forward to this meeting. He had spent several hours driving laps around the Autobots’ racing track trying to calm himself down, and then spent another hour in the washrack with the wax and polish that he’d borrowed from Sunstreaker.

He could have had this meeting with Optimus, but Bluestreak knew that would just be putting a patch over a bad weld. He needed to have this meeting, and this conversation, **now**. Otherwise, things would just continue to fester between him and Prowl.

He cycled his vents again, and then pressed the entry chime.

“Enter!” said Prowl’s voice over the speaker.

The door shushed open, and Bluestreak stepped into Prowl’s office.

“Hello, Bluestreak,” Prowl said, and gestured at the chair across from him. “Please, sit down.”

After being friends with him for millennia, Bluestreak was familiar enough with Prowl’s mannerisms to recognize how uncomfortable Prowl was. His door wings were held stiffly behind him, and he wore an expression that was all business.

_Well, good_, Bluestreak thought. _At least I’m not the only one feeling uncomfortable with this situation._

As Bluestreak sat in the chair, Prowl glanced at the datapad in Bluestreak’s hand. “I understand you are here to discuss your accommodation requests,” Prowl said, and held out his hand.

Bluestreak hesitated. “I am,” he said, clutching the datapad to his chest. “But I want to say something first.”

Prowl froze, and folded his hands together again in front of him. “Of course,” he murmured, his face expressionless. “Go ahead.”

Bluestreak collected his thoughts. He’d met with Smokescreen to go over exactly what he wanted to tell Prowl, wanting to get as much of a professional opinion as he could before saying it to Prowl’s face. Bluestreak had been vague about who he was having the conversation with and why, of course; he still didn’t want his true past to be common knowledge. But he told Smokescreen that one of his close friends had lied to him and manipulated him, and he wanted to be able to say his piece.

It probably wouldn’t be long before Smokescreen figured out who Bluestreak was having the problem with, since the psychologist was a master at reading mechs’ relationships. But Smokescreen’s input had been worth it, and Bluestreak trusted Smokescreen to keep his confidence.

Bluestreak took a full vent, then launched into his speech. “I’m still angry, and I probably will be for a long time,” he said, reciting the words he’d rehearsed. “I’m hurt by what you did to me. I’m upset that you didn’t tell me, even after you decided that you didn’t want to lie to me anymore. And I’m furious about all that time I spent thinking that something was wrong with me – between hating my frame and my nightmares. You had the answer all along, and still you kept it a secret. I’m so angry at you...” He gripped the datapad tightly, and felt it flex slightly. With an effort, he loosened his grip so as not to crack the screen with his fingers. “I know we have to work together. We’re both Autobots. I intend to stay an Autobot. We’re still fighting this war, and I won’t do anything to get in the way of the Autobot cause. But... I don’t think we can be friends anymore. Not like how we were. Not now.”

A wave of emotions flickered across Prowl’s face, far too quickly for Bluestreak to register them all. But the dip of Prowl’s door wings told him all he needed to know about how Prowl felt about Bluestreak’s words. “I understand,” Prowl finally said. “And I am sorry for what I did... And what I didn’t do.”

“I miss the old Prowl, you know,” Bluestreak said. His spark twisted sadly as he saw Prowl’s optics brighten for a moment. “I mean, I miss the Prowl I thought I used to know, back when I thought Prowl would never lie to me.” A memory flashed through his processor, from back in Iacon, of Hound telling him how he trusted anything that Prowl said because he was never wrong. “Maybe that Prowl never really existed.”

Prowl’s door wings fell even further at that, but he nodded slowly. “I hope that some day I will be able to earn your trust back. I know that it’ll take time, and maybe it’ll never happen. But I hope that it will.” Prowl’s jaw was clenched, and Bluestreak could hear the effort Prowl was using to keep his vocalizer steady.

“Me too,” Bluestreak said. Then, before he could dwell on what he’d just said and the connection he’d just severed, Bluestreak handed the datapad across the desk. “Anyway, here are my requests.”

Prowl accepted the datapad and flicked it on without a word. He skimmed through the list, then looked up at Bluestreak. “This is it?” he asked.

Bluestreak nodded. “That’s it.” Bluestreak knew that the Autobots were strapped for resources in several key areas, so he’d tempered both his requests and his expectations with that in mind. As a result, the list on the pad was modest, with just a few items. Or rather, it was modest in his opinion.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the things he was asking for were outrageous. Especially the last item on the list.

The item he most wanted.

Bluestreak cycled his vents. Hound had helped him compile the list, and the truck was sure that he would get just about everything he was asking for.

Prowl looked at the datapad again, reading it more closely. “You’re requesting to only be promoted to Sergeant instead of First Sergeant,” he said. “Why?”

“Because First Sergeant would put me above all of my roommates,” Bluestreak said. He smiled, remembering Hound’s reaction to his promotion. “For as much as it matters here on Earth, I’d rather not outrank **everyone** recharging in the same room as me.” That, and the higher promotions had felt too much like a bribe.

Nodding, Prowl said, “Fair reasoning. Your rank can be reviewed when we make it back to Cybertron.” He looked at the pad again and read the next item. “A repaint? You don’t have to ask for that.”

Bluestreak shrugged. “I wanted to make sure that it was listed, so I couldn’t be refused the cost of the paint or anything like that.” He still wanted to check with Sunstreaker for the specific colours, but he thought changing his paint to his old frame’s colours – at least for a little while, to see how it felt – sounded like a good idea. Thunderbolt had been blue and silver, and Bluestreak wanted to mirror that as well as he could.

The worst that would happen was that it felt weird, and he’d get himself painted back to his current colours.

Prowl had moved on to the next item, and his door wings rose when he read it. “An update to your medical history, indicating that your spark was originally forged in a flight frame.” He looked back up at Bluestreak. “Ratchet is not dumb, nor is Smokescreen. They will likely figure out what happened. I thought you wanted to keep your true origins a secret.” Prowl frowned. “Your file already notes that your frame had to be completely rebuilt, with all the stress on your spark that entailed. Surely that should be enough.”

Bluestreak let his door wings droop slightly. “Maybe,” he said. “But... I think it’s a good idea to spell it out. I think that my claustrophobia is related more to not being able to see the sky, or knowing I can go outside, rather than from the trauma of crash-landing in Praxus.” He shrugged. “I mean, I’ve dealt with that, but I think it’s something that should be recorded in my file. Officially. Just in case.”

_And maybe, after this war is over, you can be held accountable for what you did to me,_ Bluestreak thought.

After staring at Bluestreak for a full minute, Prowl’s door wings dipped in acquiescence, and he nodded. “All right,” he said. “The Prime indicated that we should be as accommodating as we can. If this is something you want, we will do it.” He held Bluestreak’s gaze for a moment before glancing back down at the datapad.

“Thank you,” Bluestreak said. Then he held his ventilations as Prowl looked at the last item on the list.

Prowl’s door wings shot up over his shoulders. “A jetpack?” he asked, looking up at Bluestreak again with wide optics.

“Like Sideswipe’s,” Bluestreak said. “I was working on one with him, back on Cybertron, but it had to be stripped for parts when we were working to get the Ark ready for launch. I was so excited about being able to fly... I mean, back then I thought it was just something weird that I wanted to do, since ground frames aren’t usually big fans of heights. But now I know it’s because I was **forged** to fly. My spark was **ignited** to fly.” He gestured with his hands, trying to pull the words out of the air as he spoke. “I **need** to fly. I used the tables you got me to price out a frame modification so I could fly like Tracks, but I don’t want to bankrupt our resources. I know we’re scrounging for parts as it is. So, having a jetpack will be the closest I can get to being back in a flight frame.”

Prowl’s optics did not go wide at Bluestreak’s torrent of words, but he sat back in his seat. He looked back down at the pad. “I take it this is the parts list?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bluestreak said, resisting the urge to fidget in his chair. This was the thing he most wanted. This is what he **needed**, above anything else. “Sideswipe helped me with the parts list, and Wheeljack made some additions.” When Prowl lifted a brow ridge at that, Bluestreak added, “And we had Perceptor look it over to make sure Wheeljack didn’t add something that would make it too dangerous.”

Prowl looked over the parts list silently. Then, he tapped the pad once and handed it back to Bluestreak. “Approved,” he said. “All of it.”

“Just like that?” Bluestreak asked, uncertain that he’d heard correctly. Prowl hadn’t said much about the addition to his medical file, even though he probably knew the real reason Bluestreak wanted his spark’s true nature included, and he had barely even flickered an optic at the promotion, and the jetpack, holy slag, did he really just say yes to the jetpack? Oh Primus, was he really going to get to fly and–

“Just like that,” Prowl replied. He flashed Bluestreak a small smile. “But I don’t want you to think that I’m only agreeing to get you to trust me. I don’t want to earn your trust with trinkets and minor adjustments.” He gestured at the datapad that Bluestreak had clutched to his chest armor again. “All of those items make sense, based on your explanations and what you’ve learned about yourself over the past few days. I see no reason to deny them.”

“Thank you!” Bluestreak exclaimed, fluttering his door wings in excitement when he saw the approval mark. He knew that Optimus Prime had promised him that they would help with anything that would make things easier for Bluestreak. But somehow, Bluestreak had not been able to shake the notion that a jetpack would be an extravagance that the Autobots couldn’t afford.

Bluestreak stood to leave Prowl’s office when the Praxian called his name, and Bluestreak turned back to look at Prowl. “Just... be careful,” Prowl said. His smile was sincere, but there was an anxious quiver in his door wings. “I know you said that we can’t be friends but... That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.” His smile faded slightly and he added, “I don’t want to lose you, Bluestreak.”

Bluestreak grinned, and gave Prowl a quick salute. “I promise to be careful, sir,” he said, and then tore off to tell Hound the good news.

* * *

“How does it feel?” Sideswipe asked after checking the connection points. “Can you make sure it’s not loose or shifting at all?”

Bluestreak bounced on his pedes, but the jetpack on his back was firmly attached. “It’s on tight! See?”

Sideswipe leaned close, examining the connections from the pack into Bluestreak’s data ports. “Run through the demo sequence again. Are you getting any error messages?”

Like he’d done ten time already, Bluestreak initialized the jetpack’s firing sequence, then powered it down again. “Nope. It’s all green,” he said. He huffed when Sideswipe poked at the harness once more. “I never see you go through all these steps when you use your jetpack,” he groused.

“I don’t,” Sideswipe said, finally stepping back. “But I also don’t have an audience of officers who are ready to slaughter me if anything goes wrong.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the hill behind them.

Bluestreak glanced to the top of the rocky rise, about two-hundred fifty meters away. He could easily see Ratchet and Prowl standing watch over the scene below them. Ratchet looked calm, but Bluestreak knew he was ready to leap into action if anything went wrong. Prowl just looked... like Prowl. His door wings were held out straight behind him, and his face was almost expressionless. Bluestreak knew him well enough, though, to see that the tilt of his door wings spoke volumes about how nervous Prowl was.

Bluestreak turned back to Sideswipe with a small smile on his lips. Let Prowl be nervous.

“All right,” Sideswipe said finally. “Let’s go through the final checklist. All of the attachment points are firmed and closed?”

“Yes. You **literally** just checked that,” Bluestreak said impatiently.

“Let him run through it all,” Hound said. “Especially this first time.” He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “Leave the shortcutting for when I’m not watching, ok?”

“Listen to Hound,” Skyfire said. The large mech was standing a short distance away, ready to provide assistance once they finally got into the air. “This is your first time up. Sideswipe is teaching you the right way to do things... Then later you can do things his way.”

“That’s right,” Sideswipe said without missing a beat. “This looks fine. Air flow good?”

“Check,” said Bluestreak.

“All fueled up?”

Bluestreak nodded. “I topped up right before Skyfire brought us out here.”

“And your energy levels?”

“Energy’s at 91%,” Bluestreak said. He bounced on his pedes once more. “Can we go now?”

Sideswipe nodded. “Yup! But just a test fire at first, so you can get your balance in the air. It can be a little tricky, so let’s just try hovering at first.”

Bluestreak accessed the firing controls of the jetpack, and felt the heat of the thrusters on his lower legs. Then, he rose slowly into the air. One meter, two, three, four, five...

Slag. Even just getting his pedes off of the ground felt amazing.

“Good enough!” called Sideswipe. He’d followed Bluestreak into the air using his own jetpack, and he hovered a short distance away from Bluestreak. “You’re nice and steady! Now, try rocking from side to side, gently. You want to get a feel for it so you don’t go shooting off in some direction...”

Bluestreak leaned right, and felt himself slide sideways through the air. Leaning left brought him back. He glanced around and saw Skyfire standing nearby, ready to grab him if he went careening off in a weird direction. 

“You’re doing great!” Sideswipe called. “Now, see if you can do a small turn...” Sideswipe demonstrated, spinning in a slow, lazy circle as he hovered.

Bluestreak leaned, and felt himself turning and sliding, and... it felt completely natural. He tipped his door wings as he turned, feeling the air currents buffeting against their span. A small change in the angle of his torso and his door wings sent him spinning the other way... Then back... Then around... Then back...

“Whoa!” Sideswipe called. “That’s enough!” Bluestreak stopped his spin and reoriented himself to face Sideswipe, grinning widely. Sideswipe returned his smile and made a ‘down’ gesture. “Let’s land!”

The smile on Bluestreak’s face slipped slightly, but he gradually cut power to the jetpack until his pedes were on the ground again. “That was fun!” he said as Sideswipe came up behind him to double check the bolts holding the harness onto his frame. “And everything’s still good! Can we go higher now?”

Sideswipe gave Bluestreak a strange look. “Did you mean to spin around like that?” he asked. When Bluestreak nodded, he said, “Well, you’re a natural, then. It took me weeks to learn how to twirl in one spot like that.” He flicked a finger against one of Bluestreak’s door wings. “Then again, I don’t have sails like these to help me maneuver.”

Bluestreak jumped up and down, eager to feel nothing below him again. “So? Are we good? Can we go flying?”

Sideswipe glanced up at Skyfire, and the shuttleformer nodded. “If you think you’re ready,” Skyfire said. Then he smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were forged to fly. It looked as if you knew exactly how to hold yourself in the air. That kind of awareness usually only comes naturally to airframes.” He gave Bluestreak a strange look, as if he was being seen in a new light.

Bluestreak dipped his door wings, and glanced at Hound before smiling back up at Skyfire. He wondered just how much Skyfire had guessed about him. “I’m ready,” he said confidently, not bothering to acknowledge anything else that Skyfire had said.

Hound caught Bluestreak’s hand, and grabbed the back of his helm. “Good flying,” he said, bumping his helm against Bluestreak’s. “I’ll be waiting here with Ratchet and Prowl when you get back.”

“Thanks, Hound,” Bluestreak said, and gave Hound’s hand a quick squeeze before letting go. He turned to face Skyfire and Sideswipe. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do this!”

“Like we talked about,” Sideswipe said. “I’ll lead. You follow me. Skyfire’s gonna tail you. Don’t get ahead of me or too far from him.”

“If anything goes wrong, send me a mayday signal,” Skyfire said firmly, pinging Bluestreak with his personal frequency as reinforcement. “I’m not very fast, but I should be able to catch you if something happens.”

“Right.” Bluestreak felt a flutter of excitement, and let it translate to his door wings. He was finally going to fly, for real, on his own! He grinned at Sideswipe. “Let’s **go** already!”

Sideswipe fired his jetpack and rose into the air. Bluestreak fired his as well, rising behind Sideswipe, lifting higher and higher with every second.

As the ground dropped away, Bluestreak looked out over the desert. The rise that Ratchet and Prowl were standing on quickly fell below him, and all three Autobots on the ground dwindled into nothing more than dots. In the distance, Bluestreak could make out the flat structure of the Ark, its engines just visible in the side of the volcano where it had crashed. Beyond that, the snow-covered peaks of the mountains rose. They were never visible from the Ark because of all the tall pines that surrounded their crash site, but even from several hundred kilometers away it was less than a minute before Bluestreak could see them clearly.

He held out his arms, and let himself spin lazily, turning in a full circle to see all around them. To the north, he could see a human city, its towers looking like miniature blocks plugged into the ground. To the south, he could see a bank of clouds, promising rain for anyone in its way.

Bluestreak’s altimeter told him they were at about three thousand meters when Sideswipe levelled off and started flying east. Sideswipe pinged him on an open channel. ::How are you doing so far?::

::This is fantastic!:: Bluestreak let his giddiness bleed into the comm line. He swerved left, then right, getting his balance in the air. Bluestreak flattened his door wings, reveling in the feel of the air flowing over them. ::It feels great!::

Skyfire’s voice broke into the comm line. ::You’ve got enough height that you can do a few spins, like you did before.:: There was a definite note of amusement in Skyfire’s tone. ::Rolls are always fun.::

Bluestreak looked down, and saw the large shuttleformer perform a slow, lazy roll in the air.

Bluestreak steadied himself in the air, and after a moment he spun himself in a barrel roll. The world whirled around him as the ground became the sky and the sky became the ground, and then it all returned to their proper positions. When he leveled out again, he laughed out loud.

He’d never felt more like himself in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s my Transformers Big Bang 2019 fic! Huzzah! I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> I want to thank **Adi** ([Twitter](https://twitter.com/Adithehella), [Tumblr](https://tfadi.tumblr.com/), [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/Adithehella)) and **Sirenthe** ([Twitter](https://twitter.com/Sierenthe), [Tumblr](https://chaoswolf12.tumblr.com/), [DeviantArt](https://www.deviantart.com/chaoswolf12)) for the amazing artwork they did – please go and show them some love for the work they did. I also want to thank Ptero for putting the [Big Bang event](https://twitter.com/TFbigbang/status/1162492458703437825) together... I’m sure it was like herding cats. And I also want to give a shoutout to ALL of the participants of the event – you were all amazingly supportive! Please go check out everyone else’s work in the [Transformers Big Bang collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TFBigBang2019) on AO3.
> 
> But wait... **there’s more!** The event called for a fic of 20,000 words. As you can see, I blew past that like crazy. I actually had to do a lot of editing to keep the fic as focused as I could make it on Bluestreak and his experiences. As a result, there are some aspects of the story that were glossed over, or which had to be left out completely. 
> 
> Starting next week I’ll be posting a little series of “extras” like I’ve done for some of my other long fics. It’ll include a look at what Vortex is thinking about all of this, tell us who that other Autobot on Earth is who was part of the project, and also what the frag Prowl was doing/thinking during all of this. **Update:** It's here! [The Spark Remembers: Extras](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20704031/chapters/49181333) is now available.
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and for all of the supportive comments and feedback! I really do appreciate every single one! ♥
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider sharing it on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/pipermca/status/1163559058055618561), [Tumblr](https://pipermca.tumblr.com/post/187127210647/the-spark-remembers), or [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/802734)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Artwork for "The Spark Remembers" by Pipermca](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20316073) by [Chaoswolf12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaoswolf12/pseuds/Chaoswolf12)


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